at that minute. She was fidgeting with a sheet
of drawing paper.

"Careful you don't bend that," cautioned Linda. Then she looked at
John Gilman. He BELIEVED what he was saying; he was happy again. Linda
evolved the best smile she could.

"How stupid of us not to have guessed!" she said.

Closing the door behind them, Linda leaned against it and looked up
through the skylight at the creep blue of the night, the low-hung stars.
How long she stood there she did not know. Presently she went to her
chair, picked up her pencil, and slowly began to draw. At first she
scarcely realized what she was doing, then she became absorbed in
her work. Then she reached for her color box and brushes, and shortly
afterward tacked against the wall an extremely clever drawing of a
greatly enlarged wasp. Skillfully she had sketched a face that was
recognizable round the big insect eyes. She had surmounted the face by
a fluff of bejewelled yellow curls, encased the hind legs upon which the
creature stood upright in pink velvet Turkish trousers and put tiny gold
shoes on the feet. She greatly exaggerated the wings into long trails
and made them of green gauze with ruffled edges. All the remainder of
the legs she had transformed into so many braceleted arms, each holding
a tiny fan, or a necklace, a jewel box, or a handkerchief of lace. She
stood before this sketch, studying it for a few minutes, then she walked
over to the table and came back with a big black pencil. Steadying her
hand with a mahl stick rested against the wall, with one short sharp
stroke she drew a needle-pointed stinger, so screened by the delicate
wings that it could not be seen unless you scrutinized the picture
minutely. After that, with careful, interested hands she brought out
Peter Morrison's drawings and replaced them on the wall to dry.

CHAPTER XX. The Cap Sheaf

Toward the last of the week Linda began to clear the mental decks of her
ship of life in order that she might have Saturday free for her promised
day with Donald. She had decided that they would devote that day to
wave-beaten Laguna. It was a long drive but delightful. It ran over the
old King's Highway between miles of orange and lemon orchards in full
flower, bordered by other miles of roses in their prime.

Every minute when her mind was not actively occupied with her lessons
or her recipes Linda was dreaming of the King's Highway. Almost
unconsciously she began to chant:

"All in the golden