He went down the stair in his bath-robe. The walls were still
wreath-hung, but the rooms had been despoiled of their roses: only a
dozen vases of blooms still unwithered remained of the greater glory;
and in the yellow parlor--a great heap of shriveled petals, broken ivy
and dewy-blue cedar berries, sprinkled with wisps of feathers and
sequinned beads--lay the shattered remainders of last night's gaiety.

Presently he was splashing in the lake, shooting under his curved hand
unerring jets of water at Chum, who danced about the rim barking, now
venturing to wet a valorous paw, now scrambling up the bank to escape
the watery javelins.

It was another perfect day, though far on the mountainous horizon a
blue-black density promised otherwise for the morrow. The sun lay
golden-soft over the huddled hills. Birds darted hither and thither,
self-important bumble-bees boomed from vine to vine and the shady
lake-corners flashed with dragon-flies. The stately white swans turned
their arching necks interrogatively toward the splashing, and the brown
ducks, Peezletree and Pilgarlic, quacked and gobbled softly to each
other among the lily-pads.

Valiant came up the terraces with his blood bounding to a new rapture.
Crossing the garden, he ran quickly to the little close which held the
sun-dial and pulled a single great passion-flower. He stood a moment
holding it to his face, his nostrils catching its faint elusive perfume.
Only last night, under the moon, he had stood there with Shirley in his
arms. A gush of the unbelievable sweetness of that moment poured over
him. His face softened.

Standing with his sandaled feet deep in the white blossoms, the sun
on his damp hair and the loose robe clinging to his moist limbs, he
gave himself to a sudden day-dream. A wonderful waking dream of joy
overflooding years of ambitionless ease; of the Damory Court that
should be in days to come.

Summer would pass to autumn, with maple-foliage falling in golden rain,
and fawn-brown fields scattered with life-everlasting, with the wine-red
beauty of October, its purple pageant of crimsoning woods, its opal haze
of Indian summer, and scent of burning leaves. Frost would lay its
spectral stain over the old house like star-dew, and the scent of cider
would linger under the apple-trees. In his mind's eye he could see
Uncle Jefferson bent with the weight of hickory-logs for the eager
chimney-piece, deep as the casement of a fortress. Snow-sandaled