It was on a day in April that over the road which led up toward the hills there sailed the snowy-white canopy of one of the strange land-craft of that region—­a schooner-wagon drawn by two fat mules who walked at a leisurely but steady pace, seemingly without guidance from any hand.

Yet that, beneath the hooded cover, there was a directing power, was demonstrated, as the mules turned suddenly from the hot road to a wagon path beneath the shelter of the pines.

It was strewn thick with brown needles, and the sharp hoofs of the little animals made no sound.  Deeper and deeper they went into the wood, until the swinging craft and its clumsy steeds seemed to swim in a sea of emerald light.

On and on breasting waves of golden gloom, where the sunlight sifted in, to anchor at last in a still space where the great trees sang overhead.

Then from beneath the canopy emerged a man in khaki.

He took off his hat, and stood for a moment looking up at the great trees, then he called softly, “Mary.”

She came to the back of the wagon and he lifted her down.

“This is my cathedral,” he said; “it is the place of the biggest pines.”

She leaned against him and looked up.  His arm was about her.  She wore a thin silk blouse and a white skirt.  Her soft fair hair was blown against his cheek.

“Roger,” she said, “was there ever such a honeymoon?”

“Was there ever such a woman—­such a wife?”

After that they were silent.  There was no need for words.  But presently he spread a rug for her, and built their fire, and they had their lunch.  The mules ate comfortably in the shade, and rested throughout the long hot hours of the afternoon.

Then once more the strange craft sailed on.  On and on over miles of orange roadway, passing now and then an orchard, flaunting the rose-color of its peach trees against the dun background of sand; passing again between drifts of dogwood, which shone like snow beneath the slanting rays of the sun—­sailing on and on until the sun went down.  Then came the shadowy twilight, with the stars coming out in the warm dusk—­then the moonlight—­and the mocking-birds singing.