“Well, I’ll be—­” Max’s exclamation cut his brother short.  He stood still, staring.  There was a flutter of lilac skirts, a low cry of joy, and Jarvis was looking on enviously at an illustration of the privileges that exist for brothers, who—­stupid fellows—­do not half appreciate them.  A moment later Alec and Bob had come in for their share of sisterly greeting, and the three were standing round the returned traveller in a highly satisfied semi-circle, putting questions, making comments, and generally behaving as they might have been counted on to do.

“I hope you don’t expect us to believe those piteous tales about your losing flesh and colour with homesickness,” declared Max, his hand on his sister’s shoulder, as he turned her full toward the firelight.  “Jove, I never saw you look more like one of those pink peonies you think so much of, in your garden.”

“I didn’t write piteous tales!” His sister involuntarily accentuated the likeness he had suggested by growing pinker than before.

“It was Uncle Tim, then.  He got worried about you, and wrote me so.  He must have been off his base.  You never looked healthier.  But, see here, miss—­you don’t do this thing again—­understand?  We’ll never keep house here another winter without you!”

* * * * *

Sally had come home on Saturday night.  On Sunday morning the rain had ceased, and the sun was shining brilliantly.  Before breakfast she was out in the garden.  Spying her there as he looked out of his window, Max hastened his dressing and went out to join her.

“Looks fairly well in order, eh?” he questioned.

Sally remembered certain information sent her in one of Janet’s letters.  “Indeed it does.  And you made it so.  That pleases me more than I can tell you, Max.”

“How do you know I did?”

“Guessed it from your expression—­and a hint I had had.  Didn’t you rather enjoy doing it?”

“Much more than I should have expected,” he was forced to admit under the scrutiny of her eyes.

“How I wish you could leave the bank and join the boys in the work out here.  Don’t you almost wish so yourself?” she demanded, thrusting her hand through his arm, as he paced along, his hands in his pockets.  The old garden paths were quite wide enough for two, when they walked close together.

Max looked down at her.  “To tell the truth, I’m beginning to wish so too.”

This, from Max, was a great admission.  Sally’s eyes sparkled with pleasure.  “Oh, can’t you?” she cried.

“I don’t see how I can, this year.  To be sure, Jarve’s paying all the expenses and taking all the responsibility these first two years, according to agreement, but I can’t lie down on him.  Of course it’s all outgo and no income until we get the strawberries to bearing next year.  Meanwhile the family has to be supported, and what timber we’ve thought best to sell won’t do that, if all of us stop work.  It’s all right for Al and Bob to spend this season on the farm, for Jarve would have to hire somebody anyway, but it’s different with me, and my salary is more than they could earn, both together, at their old jobs.  No—­I must grind away another year.  But then—­”