They wanted her—­in California.  In fact, they had always wanted her, from the day she came away.  She had stayed to see the new house built, and had stayed for the wedding, and then had come back to Boston, thinking her duty to Austin done, and herself free to take up the old life with a clear conscience.  But almost the first letters from the rancho demanded her!  Little Rafael had painfully written to know where he could find this poem and that to which she had introduced him.  Marty had sent her a bird’s nest, running over with ants when it was opened in Cornelia’s breakfast-room, but he never knew that.  Jose had written for advice as to seeds for Manzanita’s garden.  And Austin had written he missed her, it was “rotten” not to find mater waiting for them, when they came back from their honeymoon.

But best of all, Manzanita had written, and, ah, it was sweet to be wanted as Manzanita wanted her!  News of all the neighbors, of the women at the mine, pressed wildflowers, scraps of new gowns, and questions of every sort; Manzanita’s letters brimmed with them.  She could have her own rooms, her own bath, she could have everything she liked, but she must come back!

“I am the only woman here at the house,” wrote Manzanita, “and it’s no fun.  I’d go about ever so much more, if you were here to go with me.  I want to start a club for the women at the mine, but I never belonged to a club, and I don’t know how.  Rose Harrison wants you to come on in time for her wedding, and Alice has a new baby.  And old Mrs. Larabee says to tell you—­”

And so on and on.  They didn’t forget her, on the Yerba Buena, as the months went by.  Mrs. Phelps grew to look eagerly for the letters.  And now came this one, and the greatest news in the world—!  And now, it was as it should be, Manzanita wanted her more than ever!

Cornelia came in upon her happy musing, to kiss her mother, send her hat and furs upstairs, ring for tea, and turn on the lights, all in the space of some sixty seconds.

“It was so interesting to-day, mater,” reported Cornelia.  “Cousin Emily asked for you, and Edith and the Butlers sent love.  Helen is giving a bridge lunch for Mrs. Marye; she’s come up for Frances’ wedding on the tenth.  And Anna’s mother is better; the nurse says you can see her on Wednesday.  Don’t forget the Shaw lecture Wednesday, though.  And there is to be a meeting of this auxiliary of the political study club,—­I don’t know what it’s all about, but one feels one must go.  I declare,” Cornelia poured a second cup, “next winter I’m going to try to do less.  There isn’t a single morning or afternoon that I’m not attending some meeting or going to some affair.  Between pure milk and politics and charities and luncheons,- -it’s just too much!  Belle says that women do all the work of the world, in these days—­”

“And yet we don’t get at anything,” said Mrs. Phelps, in her brisk, impatient little way.  “I attend meetings, I listen to reports, I sit on boards—­But what comes of it all!  Trained nurses and paid workers do all the actual work—­”