her arm,
one hand caressing the drooped wings. It was like holding a little wild
bird. With every breeze, Angela's wings opened. And always, hands, feet,
hair, feathers fluttered with some temperamental unrest.

The boys tiring of the waves, came scrambling in their direction.
Half-way up the beach, they too came upon the boulder in the path. It
was too high and smooth for them to climb, but they immediately
set themselves to do it. Peterkin pulled himself half-way up, only
immediately to fall back. Junior stood for an instant imitatively
reaching up with his baby hands, then abandoning the attempt waddled off
after a big butterfly. Honey-Boy slipped and slid to the ground, but he
was up in an instant and at it again.

Angela fluttered with baby-violence. Julia opened her arms. The child
leaped from her lap, started half-running, half-flying, caught a seaward
going breeze, sailed to the top of the boulder. She balanced herself
there, gazing triumphantly down on Billy-Boy who, flat on his stomach,
red in the face, his black eyes bulging out of his head, still pulled
and tugged and strained.

"Honey-Boy's tried to climb that rock every day for three months," Lulu
boasted proudly. "He'll do it some day. I never saw such persistence. If
he gets a thing into his head, I can't do anything with him."

"Angela starts to climb it occasionally," Peachy said. "But, of course,
I always stop her. I'm afraid she'll hurt her feet."

Above the rock stretched the bough of a big pine. As she contemplated
it, a look of wonder grew in Angela's eyes, of question, of uncertainty.
Suddenly it became resolution. She spread her wings, bounded into the
air, fluttered upwards, and alighted squarely on the bough.

"Oh, Angela!" Peachy called anxiously. Then, joyously, "Look at my baby.
She'll be flying as high as we did in a few years. Oh, how I love to
think of that!"

She laughed in glee--and the others laughed with her. They continued
to watch Angela's antics, their faces growing more and more gay. Julia
alone did not smile; but she watched the exhibition none the less
steadily.

Three years had brought some changes to the women of Angel Island;
and for the most part they were devastating changes. They were still
wingless. They wore long trailing garments that concealed their feet.
These garments differed in color and decoration, but they were alike in
one detail-floating, wing-like draperies hung from the shoulders.

Chiquita had g