Here and there, under the huge coniferous trees, lay patches of snow still unmelted, though the month was June.  Indian fire glowed red on the white expanse, blood on marble, and scarlet snow-plant sent up lurid spouts like flaming fountains.  The tree-shadows were painted pools of lupin, azure lakes; or they were purple seas of larkspur.  Mountain-roses and wild lilac tangled in a maze of pink and white and gold.  Bear-clover crowned the bald gray heads of rocks, or shone out like star-white strawberry blossoms from under a thicket of deer-bush.  Wild asters burned rosily, like small Catherine wheels half extinguished.  Small, mottled tiger lilies blazed among the pale young fronds of growing bracken:  the air was scented with wild roses and the spicy fragrance of manzanita trees—­the breath of California.  But loveliest and strangest of all things were the gardens chosen for their own by the mariposa lilies.  The trembling winged flowers hovered airily just above the earth, like a flock of alighting butterflies; and overhead poised real butterflies, of the self-same delicate tints hardly strong enough to be named as colours; silvery white, faint lilac, and a sunrise-hint of rose.  Ground butterflies and air butterflies seemed kin to one another, those rooted to the ground longing for wings, those to whom earth offered no permanent foothold envying their half-sister’s rest and peace.

Here in the mountains it was spring, though down below in the valleys full summer had come; and toward evening Angela and Nick descended once again to the summer world.

The valley of Wawona was laid out on the plan of those fairy rings, alias glacier meadows, which they had seen in higher places, only this was a fairy ring on a grander scale.  It seemed so hidden by a belt of mountains that its green lawns, its gardens, its fountains and flowers might have been originally discovered only by some happy accident.  But the discoverer being of a practical turn of mind, he or his descendants had built a delightful though unobtrusive hotel on a spot which might still have been warm from the fairies.  On the veranda of the hotel was Kate, beaming with smiles of welcome as the buckboard coming down from Glacier Point brought her mistress in sight.

“Oh, it was a lovely place!” said Kate.  And sure, how happy she and Timmy were to be there at last.  She had arrived hours ago, and was nicely rested, yes, thank you, ma’am.

There were saucers of white violets, and vases of iris and Washington lilies in Mrs. May’s bedroom.  Here were no embarrassing complications connected with “Mr.”  May and “Mrs.”  Hilliard.  All was peace; and as the dust which had turned Angela’s golden hair to silver was being brushed away by Kate, the tale of the maid’s adventures was unfolded.  Yet Angela, smiling gently, as she inhaled the sweetness of violets, hardly listened.  She was glad that Kate was almost well and that Timmy was restored to the bosom of his family.  But it seemed to her that no one except herself had had any adventures worth the name.  No one else could ever have adventures half as good!  Even she—­no, not for her could their like come again.  She began to grudge the passing of the hours, wishing that she had the power to stop all the clocks of the world.