my's work she knew,--was
her blue maid's dress. She drew it out and put it on.

The rose of the sky was not more pink than her cheeks when she opened
the door and walked out on the sand. "What are you doing here, I'd like
to know?" A wren called above her head so fast and so scoldingly that
she started in surprise, only to recognize an old friend. He cocked his
tail and trilled and sang as though indignant that any one in the house
should be up as early as he. And as he sang other birds sang with him,
the light grew in the east, and morning came to the world.

With steady, unhesitating tread she walked through the pines along the
path to where the cypress marked the turn into the orange grove. Then
for a moment she stopped, because, despite her will, her breath came in
short gasps. Passion swept over her. The months in the city, the strife
and tumult, the struggle to guide her unwilling heart, were blotted from
her life. Now was reality, and the world held nothing for her but the
pines through which she had passed and the world of the great house into
which she would turn. Yet how could she know he would be in his old
place to greet her? Perhaps it was too early. Perhaps he had ceased to
work as formerly among his trees. Perhaps--anything but that she had
been right and her sister wrong in her judgment of him. All her old
doubts rushed back. Her knees shook and she put her hand upon the
cypress for support. Indecision was with her again. She hated herself
for her surrender.

And then in a moment, the sunshine, the fragrant air, the chatter of the
birds, brought back her faith. She felt the joy of the morning, the
courage of the coming day. With a prayer that was a call to him she left
her boundary line and turned into the orange grove.

There was change about the place. The same trees were there, but to
right and left land had been cleared for cultivation. A garden must have
flourished by the water's edge for there were signs of hills of peas and
beans such as furnished winter produce for the stores that she had seen
in New York. Some one had been very industrious, working hard to make
fruitful the earth.

She took a step forward and saw the worker spraying the budding fruit.
His hat was off, his red-gold hair in tumbled mass, his clothes soiled
with dirt, he himself frowning with intentness. She watched silent,
motionless, as, in complete unconcern, he moved about his work. Suddenly
something went wrong, he droppe