ck
and sat down on the old garden bench. Before them a sea of splendour,
burning like a great jewel, stretched to the gateways of the west.
The long headlands on either side were darkly purple, and the sun left
behind him a vast, cloudless arc of fiery daffodil and elusive rose.
Back over the orchard in a cool, green sky glimmered a crystal planet,
and the night poured over them a clear wine of dew from her airy
chalice. The spruces were rejoicing in the wind, and even the battered
firs were singing of the sea. Old memories trooped into their hearts
like shining spirits.

"Baby Blossom," said Old Man Shaw falteringly, "are you quite sure
you'll be contented here? Out there"--with a vague sweep of his
hand towards horizons that shut out a world far removed from White
Sands--"there's pleasure and excitement and all that. Won't you miss it?
Won't you get tired of your old father and White Sands?"

Sara patted his hand gently.

"The world out there is a good place," she said thoughtfully, "I've had
three splendid years and I hope they'll enrich my whole life. There are
wonderful things out there to see and learn, fine, noble people to meet,
beautiful deeds to admire; but," she wound her arm about his neck and
laid her cheek against his--"there is no daddy!"

And Old Man Shaw looked silently at the sunset--or, rather, through the
sunset to still grander and more radiant splendours beyond, of which the
things seen were only the pale reflections, not worthy of attention from
those who had the gift of further sight.

VII. Aunt Olivia's Beau

Aunt Olivia told Peggy and me about him on the afternoon we went over
to help her gather her late roses for pot-pourri. We found her strangely
quiet and preoccupied. As a rule she was fond of mild fun, alert to hear
East Grafton gossip, and given to sudden little trills of almost girlish
laughter, which for the time being dispelled the atmosphere of gentle
old-maidishness which seemed to hang about her as a garment. At
such moments we did not find it hard to believe--as we did at other
times--that Aunt Olivia had once been a girl herself.

This day she picked the roses absently, and shook the fairy petals into
her little sweet-grass basket with the air of a woman whose thoughts
were far away. We said nothing, knowing that Aunt Olivia's secrets
always came our way in time. When the rose-leaves were picked, we
carried them in and upstairs in single file, Aunt Olivia bringing