“Oh, you are incorrigible!” said Cornelia, still with an air of lenience.  “Now,” she stopped for a kiss, “we’re going out to-night, so I brought you The Patricians to read; it’s charming.  And you read it, and be a good mater, and don’t think any more about going out to stay on that awful, uncivilized ranch.  Visit there in a year or two, if you like, but don’t strike roots.  I’ll come in and see you when I’m dressed.”

And she was gone.  But Mrs. Phelps felt satisfied that enough had been said to make her begin to realize that she was serious, and she contentedly resumed her dreaming over the fire.

The years, many or few, stretched pleasantly before her.  She smiled into the coals.  She was still young enough to enjoy the thought of service, of healthy fatigue, of busy days and quiet evenings, and long nights of deep sleep, with slumbering Yerba Buena lying beneath the moon outside her open window.  There would be Austin close beside her and other friends almost as near, to whom she would be sometimes necessary, and always welcome.

And there would be Manzanita, and the child,—­and after a while, other children.  There would be little bibs to tie, little prayers to hear, deep consultations over teeth and measles, over morals and manners.  And who but Grandmother could fill Grandmother’s place?

Mrs. Phelps leaned back in her chair, and shut her eyes.  She saw visions.  After a while a tear slipped from between her lashes.

RISING WATER

If only my poor child had a sensible mother,” said Mrs. Tressady, calmly, “I suppose we would get Big Hong’s ‘carshen’ for him, and that would do perfectly!  But I will not have a Chinese man for Timothy’s nurse!  It seems all wrong, somehow.”

“Big Hong hasn’t got a female cousin, I suppose?” said Timothy’s father; “a Chinese woman wouldn’t be so bad.”  “Oh, I think it would be as bad—­nearly,” Mrs. Tressady returned with vivacity.  “Anyway, this particular carshen is a man—­’My carshen lun floot store’—­ that’s who it is!”

“Will you kindly explain what ‘My carshen lun floot store’ means?” asked a young man who was lying in a hammock that he lazily moved now and then by means of a white-shod foot.  This was Peter Porter, who, with his wife, completed the little group on the Tressadys’ roomy, shady side porch.

“It means my cousin who runs a fruit store,” supplied Mrs. Porter—­a big-boned, superb blonde who was in a deep chair sewing buttons on Timothy Tressady’s new rompers.  “Even I can see that—­if I’m not a native of California.”

“Yes, that’s it,” Mrs. Tressady said absently.  “Go back and read those Situations Wanted over again, Jerry,” she commanded with a decisive snip of the elastic she was cunningly inserting into more new rompers for Timothy.

Jerry Tressady obediently sat up in his steamer chair and flattened a copy of the Emville Mail upon his knee.