some wild flowers in
a tin can for a centerpiece. The two looked up to wave a welcome to
the packers as they approached.

"By hell," said Kayak with slow appreciation, "it beats all creation
how quick women folks can make a home out o' nothin'." . . .

After supper the men sat on the porch smoking and discussing ways of
transferring the provisions from the north end of the Island.

"If we ever get a day calm enough so that we can use the whale-boat,"
said Boreland, "it won't take long to get the whole business down here.
But we can't depend on that. I don't think the sea will get smooth
enough this fall for us to bring the boat around the North Shoals.
We'd better skid it across to this side of the Island--it can't be over
a quarter of a mile wide there--and pack the grub over too. When a
favorable day comes we can load her up and it's only a few miles down
here. It's lucky for us, Gregg," he added placing a hand on the young
man's shoulder, "that we have another strong back to depend on." . . .

As they talked evening closed in. From the alders on the hillside came
the plaintive night-song of the golden-crown--the three notes of
poignant beauty and mystery that were linked indissolubly with the
summer twilights of Kon Klayu. Out over the reefs the sun had gone
down splendidly into the sea. Broad ribbons of clear jade streaked the
primrose of the sky. Beneath, bands of amethyst, amber and rose merged
slowly into a flame of crimson, and while the violet dusk crept over
the sea, the stars came out. Blowing across the bare brown reefs the
night wind brought the scent of kelp and the muffled boom of surf.

The peace and promise of the sunset soothed all into silence for a
time. Ellen and Jean and Lollie sitting close on the bottom step of
the porch, watched in reverent wonder as the colors changed. At last
the boy lifted his eyes to his mother's face.

"God smiles, mother," he said simply, resting his tired head against
her shoulder.

Jean leaned across to her sister.

"Ellen," she said quietly, "I think I love best of all the evening-time
of things, don't you--the fall of the year; the end of the day. I
wonder--" a wistfulness crept into her voice--"I wonder . . . I
hope . . . no, I _know_ that when it comes, I'll find that the sunset
time of life is the most beautiful!"

As she finished speaking she turned instinctively to look at the old
man on the porch above her, the only one of them whose slowing