The older man’s hearty acceptance of the invitation assured the artist of his genuine interest, and, an hour later—­after Aaron King had interviewed the agent and secured the keys, with the privilege of inspecting the premises—­the two set out together.

They found the place on the eastern edge of the town; half-hidden by the orange groves that surrounded it on every side.  The height of the palms that grew along the road in front, the pepper and eucalyptus trees that overshadowed the house, and the size of the orange-trees that shut in the little yard with walls of green, marked the place as having been established before the wealth of the far-away East discovered the peculiar charm of the Fairlands hills.  The lawn, the walks, and the drive were unkempt and overgrown with weeds.  The house itself,—­a small cottage with a wide porch across the front and on the side to the west,—­unpainted for many seasons, was tinted by the brush of the elements, a soft and restful gray.

But the artist and his friend, as they approached, exclaimed aloud at the beauty of the scene; for, as if rejoicing in their freedom from restraint, the roses had claimed the dwelling, so neglected by man, as their own.  Up every post of the porch they had climbed; over the porch roof, they spread their wealth of color; over the gables, screening the windows with graceful lattice of vine and branch and leaf and bloom; up to the ridge and over the cornice, to the roof of the house itself—­even to the top of the chimney they had won their way—­and there, as if in an ecstasy of wanton loveliness, flung, a spray of glorious, perfumed beauty high into the air.

On the front porch, the men turned to look away over the gentle slope of the orange groves, on the other side of the road, to the towering peaks and high ridges of the mountains—­gleaming cold and white in the winter of their altitude.  To the northeast, San Bernardino reared his head in lonely majesty—­looking directly down upon the foothills and the feeble dwellers in the valley below.  Far beyond, and surrounded by the higher ridges and peaks and canyons of the range, San Gorgonio sat enthroned in the skies—­the ruler of them all.  From the northeast, westward, they viewed the mighty sweep of the main range to Cajon Pass and the San Gabriels, beyond, with San Antonio, Cucamonga, and their sister peaks lifting their heads above their fellows.  In the immediate landscape, no house or building was to be seen.  The dark-green mass of the orange groves hid every work of man’s building between them and the tawny foothills save the gable and chimney of a neighboring cottage on the west.

“Listen”—­said Conrad Lagrange, in a low tone, moved as always by the grandeur and beauty of the scene—­“listen!  Don’t you hear them calling?  Don’t you feel the mountains sending their message to these poor insects who squirm and wriggle in this bit of muck men call their world?  God, man! if only we, in our work, would heed the message of the hills!”