friend
of Governor Hunt,--he was especially interested in his prison
policy,--and in those few weeks was the richer by one more of the really
intimate friendships one counts on to the last--Will Scarlett.

He wrote, on Carl's death, "What a horrible, hideous loss! Any of us
could so easily have been spared; that he, who was of such value, had to
go seems such an utter waste. . . . He was one of that very, very small
circle of men, whom, in the course of our lives, we come _really_ to
love. His friendship meant so much--though I heard but infrequently from
him, there was the satisfaction of a deep friendship that was _always
there_ and _always the same_. He would have gone so far! I have looked
forward to a great career for him, and had such pride in him. It's too
hideous!"

CHAPTER X

In January, 1915, Carl took up his teaching again in real earnest,
commuting to Alamo every night. I would have the boys in bed and the
little supper all ready by the fire; then I would prowl down the road
with my electric torch, to meet him coming home; he would signal in the
distance with his torch, and I with mine. Then the walk back together,
sometimes ankle-deep in mud; then supper, making the toast over the
coals, and an evening absolutely to ourselves. And never in all our
lives did we ask for more joy than that.

That spring we began building our very own home in Berkeley. The months
in Alamo had made us feel that we could never bear to be in the centre
of things again, nor, for that matter, could we afford a lot in the
centre of things; so we bought high up on the Berkeley hills, where we
could realize as much privacy as was possible, and yet where our friends
could reach us--if they could stand the climb. The love of a nest we
built! We were longer in that house than anywhere else: two years almost
to the day--two years of such happiness as no other home has ever seen.
There, around the redwood table in the living-room, by the window
overlooking the Golden Gate, we had the suppers that meant much joy to
us and I hope to the friends we gathered around us. There, on the
porches overhanging the very Canyon itself we had our Sunday
tea-parties. (Each time Carl would plead, "I don't have to wear a stiff
collar, do I?" and he knew that I would answer, "You wear anything you
want," which usually meant a blue soft shirt.)

We had a little swimming-tank in back, for the boys.

And then, most wonderful of all, came the day w