In the doorway of the bungalow a woman appeared, her smile illumined by the sunset warmth.

“Come, Gabriel,” said she.  “We’re waiting—­the Granthams, Craig, and Brevard.  Supper’s ready.  Not one of them will sit down, till you come.”

“Have I been delaying you?” asked Gabriel, turning toward the woman, with a smile that matched her own.

“I’m afraid so, just a little,” she answered.  “But no matter; I’m glad.  When you get to writing, you know, nothing else matters.  One line of your verse is worth all the suppers in the world.”

“Nonsense!” he retorted.  “I’m a mere scribbler!”

“We won’t argue that point,” she answered.  “But at any rate, you’re done, now.  So come along, boy—­or the comrades will begin ‘dividing up’ without us; for this mountain air won’t brook delay.”

Gabriel took a long breath, stretched his powerful arms out toward the mountains, and raised his face to the last light of day.

“Nature!” he whispered.  “Ever beautiful and ever young!  Ah, could man but learn thy lessons and live close to thy great heart!”

Then, turning, he followed Catherine into the bungalow.

Beautiful and restful though the outside was, the interior was more restful and more charming still.

In the vast fireplace, to left, a fire of pine roots was crackling.  The room was filled with their pitchy, wholesome perfume, with the dancing light of their blaze and with the warmth made grateful by that mountain height.

Simple and comfortable all the furnishings were, hand-wrought for use and pleasure.  Big chairs invited.  Broad couches offered rest.  No hunting-trophies, no heads of slaughtered wild things disfigured the walls, as in most bungalows; but the flickering firelight showed pictures that inspired thought and carried lessons home—­pictures of toil and of repose, pictures of life, and love, and simple joy—­pictures of tragedy, of reality and deep significance.  Here one saw Millet’s “Sower,” and “Gleaners” and “The Man with the Hoe.”  There, Fritel’s “The Conquerors,” and Stuck’s “War.”  A large copy of Bernard’s “Labor,”—­the sensation of the 1922 Paris Salon—­hung above the mantelpiece, on which stood Rodin’s “Miner” in bronze.  Portraits of Marx, Engels, LaSalle and Debs, with others loved and honored in the Movement, showed between original sketches by Walter Crane, Balfour Kerr, Art Young and Ryan Walker.  And in the well-filled bookshelves at the right, Socialist books in abundance all told the same tale to the observer—­that this was a Socialist nest high up there among the mountains, and that every thought and word and deed was inspired by one great ideal and one alone—­the Revolution!

At a plain but well-covered table near the western windows, where fading sunlight helped firelight to illumine the little company, sat three men—­two of them armed with heavy automatics—­and a woman.  Another woman, Catherine, was standing by her chair and beckoning Gabriel to his.