rowing things, played caressingly about her neck and carried
to Alden a subtle fragrance of another sort. Her turquoise-blue silk
kimono, delicately embroidered in gold, was open at the throat and
fastened at the waist with a heavy golden cord. Below, it opened over a
white petticoat that was a mass of filmy lace ruffles. Her tiny feet
peeped out beneath the lace, clad in pale blue silk stockings and
fascinating Chinese slippers that turned up at the toes.

From above came discordant rumblings and eloquent, but smothered remarks
on the general subject of trunks. Mrs. Lee laughed. "They're trying to
make the wardrobe-trunk stand up on the wrong end, and it won't."

"How do you know that's it?"

"Because I've heard the same noises and the same general trend of
conversation all the way from the Atlantic to the Pacific and back
again. The farther west you go, the more accomplished the men are in the
art of profanity."

[Sidenote: Sounds from the Attic]

"Is it an art? I thought it came naturally."

"It does, to some, but you have no idea what study and constant practice
can do in developing a natural gift."

The sunlight illumined her hair into a mass of spun gold that sparkled
and gleamed and shone. It made golden lights in her brown eyes, caressed
the ivory softness of her skin, and deepened the scarlet of her lips.

"Listen," she said. "Isn't it awful?"

"No," returned Alden, "it isn't. In fact, I don't know of any sound I'd
rather hear than your trunks being put into our attic."

A faint suggestion of a dimple appeared at the corner of her mouth, then
vanished. "Well done," she said. "You have atoned nobly for your dismay
the night I came, when you found I'd brought a trunk."

"I wish you wouldn't," he replied, awkwardly. "It wasn't that."

"Such a small trunk," she went on, mercilessly. "Just a plain little
steamer trunk that you can put under a bed. The kind you can ask a
cabman to take down to the cab for you. A little trunk that a woman can
almost carry herself! Only room for one gown, one hat, and a few toilet
articles!"

[Sidenote: Always Too Late]

The golden lights in her eyes were dancing and her hair shimmered in the
sun. Alden sat down at the farthest end of the window-seat and looked
out upon the vineyard, faintly green, now, with the new leaves. The two
men descended from the attic and went down the back stairs.

"How did Robinson Crusoe feel when he saw the footprint?" he asked,
determine