ix miles off, but ere they had gone two April knew the
painter as well as if they had been twin sisters. Clive Connal hadn't
a secret or a shilling she would not share with the whole world. She
used the vocabulary of a horse-dealer and the slang of a schoolboy, but
her mind was as fragrant as a field that the Lord hath blessed, and her
heart was the heart of a child. It was shameful to deceive such a
creature, and April's nature revolted from the act. Before they
reached the farm she had confessed her identity--explaining how the
change had come about, and why it was important to go on with the
deception. Too much explanation was not necessary with a person of
Clive's wide understanding. No vagaries of behaviour seemed to shock
or astonish her large human soul. She merely, during the relation of
Diana's tragedy, muttered once or twice to herself:

"The poor thing! Oh! the poor thing!" and looked at April as though
she too were "a poor thing," instead of a fraud and an adventuress to
be abjured and cast out. For the first time since her mother's death
the girl felt herself sheltering in the warmth of womanly sympathy, and
the comfort of it was very sweet.

"Don't worry too much," said Clive cheerfully.

"_Tout s'arrange_: that's my motto. Everything comes straight if you
leave it alone."

A cheerful motto indeed, and one seeming to fit well with the picture
of the old farmhouse lying in the morning sunshine. Low-roofed and
white-walled, it was tucked under the shelter of the Qua-Qua mountains,
with apricot orchards stretching away on either side. Six immense oaks
spread their untrimmed branches above the high stoep, and before the
house, where patches of yellow-green grass grew ragged as a vagabond's
hair, a Kerry cow was pegged out and half a dozen black babies
disported themselves amongst the acorns. Dozens of old paraffin tins
stained with rust, and sawed-off barrels bulging asunder lined the edge
of the stoep, all filled with geraniums, begonias, cacti, red lilies,
and feathery bamboos. Every plant had a flower, and every flower was a
brilliant, vital thing. Other decorations were a chopping-block, an
oak chest, blistered and curled by the sun, several wooden beds with
the bedding rolled up on them, and two women, who smiled a welcome.
These were Ghostie, and _belle_ Helene--the only names April ever knew
them by.

"Welcome to the home for derelicts, broken china, and old crocks," they
said. "Yo