hat it was about--but they
didn't get on--and--and--"

"I am sure Father was right. He is always right," she said loyally.

"Well, he may have been. I'm not denying that; but it's an old story
now, and I wouldn't bring it up again, if I were you. He has enough
things to carry without that."

She hesitated a moment before replying. "Yes, I suppose it's better not
to speak of it. He has too many worries."

"I knew you'd see it that way; you're a girl of sense. And if Mrs. Green
should ever come here, must I tell her that you would like to see her?"

"Does she think of coming here? California is so far away."

"Well, people do come, don't they? And I know she'd like to see you. She
was very fond of your mother. I used to know both of 'em in the old days
when I was a boy."

"Of course I'd like to see her if she could tell me about my mother. I
want to ask questions about her--only it makes Father so unhappy when I
bring up the past."

"It would, I reckon. Things like that are better forgotten." Then,
dismissing the subject abruptly, he remarked in the old tone of
facetious familiarity, "I never saw you looking better. What have you
done to yourself? You are always imitating some new person every time I
see you."

"I am not!" Her temper flashed out. "I never imitate anybody." Yet, even
as she passionately denied the charge, she knew that it was true. For a
week, ever since her first visit to the old print shop, she had tried to
copy Corinna's voice, the carriage of her head, her smile, her gestures.

"Well, you needn't," he assured her with admiring pleasantry. "As far as
looks go--and that's a long way--I haven't seen any one that was better
than you!"

CHAPTER IX

SEPTEMBER ROSES

The afternoon sunshine streamed through the dull gold curtains into the
old print shop where Corinna sat in her tapestry-covered chair between
the tea-table and the log fire. She was alone for the moment; and lying
back in the warmth and fragrance of the room, she let her gaze rest
lovingly on one of the English mezzotints over which a stray sunbeam
quivered. The flames made a pleasant whispering sound over the cedar
logs; her favourite wide-open creamy roses with golden hearts scented
the air; and the delicate China tea in her cup was drawn to perfection.
As she lay back in the big chair but one thing disturbed her
serenity--and that one thing was within. She had everything that she
wanted, and for the hour, at least, sh