white pitcher. Paul crossed the room to smell them, and she returned to the stove.
Something in the form and colour of the flowers, something in the smooth yellow sheen of her hair, had awakened an old memory. The fragrance of the flowers identified it. He was a boy again, poaching on the Ashmill grounds, with the image of a little fair-haired girl in his mind. The darkness of the night, the air of excitement, mystery, danger and love-sickness came back to him. What odd trifles one remembered!
"These are tea-roses, aren't they?" he asked.
"No! Marshal Neys. I grew 'em from a slip a lady gave me in Arcata."
"Oh, really!" Noting that the girl wished not to be thought provincial, he conceded that Arcata was a charming town.
She turned over the sizzling steak. "I take butter down there every week. I dessay you think Arcata's little," she said half defiantly. "I dessay you've seen a mort of big cities."
"A good few," he admitted. She gave him a glance which was meant to be disapproving—to cover all contingencies—then smiled in spite of herself, and brought the frying-pan across the room, transferring its contents to his plate.
"It's all there is—except berries and cream, and bread and butter and cheese and milk and honey."
"It's nectar and ambrosia," he protested. "Though perhaps you don't know what they are."
"We don't have much time for schooling out here," she retorted. She seated herself on a window sill, folded her arms, and turned her eyes from his face, to the golden-green fields.
The food, the shady room, the glimpse of sun-bathed flowers out of doors, the distant hum of bees, the girl's fresh colouring and clean apron, the sound of her voice,
