So that was why one evening Nick read in a San Francisco paper that “Mrs. May, who has been staying at the Fairmont Hotel for several weeks, left last night for Lake Tahoe, where she has engaged rooms at the famous Tahoe Tavern, and may remain for some time.”

Afterward, when he sent the paper on to Sara Wilkins, as he did send papers now, with parcels of books and magazines, she too noticed the paragraph.

“His star’s gone as far north and as far from him as she can possibly go and be in California,” thought the school-teacher.  And because Nick was right, and her good little face hid a heart that was still better, she was not glad, but very, very sorry.

When Kate was married to her good-looking Irishman, and the little excitement of the wedding was over, Angela began to feel rather desolate.

There were a great many pleasant people at the tavern who would have been kind to the stranger if she had let them be kind, but they were all so merry and had so many intimate interests of their own that their goodness to her seemed only to emphasize her loneliness.  Kate had insisted on “lending” her Timmy in fact, the bride and bridegroom both insisted, for there was no doubt in their minds that the black cat had brought them good fortune.  Now they had all the fortune they wanted, to “go on with,” and as poor, pretty Mrs. May seemed “a bit down on her luck,” they would leave her Timmy to bring it back again.  And really the topaz-eyed creature, in its becoming jade collar—­a gift from Nick Hilliard—­was often a comfort to Angela, curled up in her lap and purring cosily under her book as she read.  It seemed curiously fond of her, even fonder than of Kate, and had “taken to” her from the first.

Angela had travelled through a region of snowsheds to reach the lake in the heart of the Sierra Nevada, and the scenery was as different from any she had met in California as was her mood from the mood of the south.  At Tahoe she was a mile above sea-level, and ringed in by higher mountains which had not lost their dazzling crowns of snow.

On the shore of the long blue lake that mirrored eternally, a clear, cool sky and immense dark trees—­pines and cedars—­Angela felt that a line had been drawn between her and her California past, with its flame of golden, poppies and flowers of the forest.  Here she had reached a high note of beauty which rang crystalline as a silver rod striking upon ice.  The place gave Angela a sense of purity and remoteness which she had felt by no lake-shore of Europe.  The charm of other lakes had been their villa-sprinkled shores, their historical associations.  The charm of Tahoe was loneliness.  She liked to row out on the water alone, and rest on her oars to look down, down, through miles (it seemed) of liquid sapphire and emerald blending together.

Tahoe was not remote, really since luxurious trains had brought it into close touch with San Francisco and with the East; but Angela liked to cultivate the impression of remoteness as if she were a nun in retreat, and the beauty was of a kind that called to her spirit, making renunciation easier than in the luscious south, scented with lilies and roses.  Tahoe had its roses, too; but its chief perfume was of pines and the pure freshness of breezes that blow over water and snow mountains.