Dawn came, and sunrise.  The fog lifted like a curtain, disappeared in curling filaments against the sun.  Little brown-sailed fishing-smacks began to come dipping home, sunlight fell warm and bright on the roofs of Alcatraz, the blue hills beyond showed soft against the bluer sky.  Ferry boats cut delicate lines of foam in the sheen of the bay, morning whistles awakened the town.  Susan felt the sun’s grateful warmth on her shoulders and, watching the daily miracle of birth, felt vaguely some corresponding process stir her own heart.  Nature cherishes no yesterdays; the work of rebuilding and replenishing goes serenely on.  Punctual dawn never finds the world unready, April’s burgeoning colors bury away forever the memories of winter wind and deluge.

“There is some work that I may still do, in this world, there is a place somewhere for me,” thought Susan, walking home, hungry and weary, “Now the question is to find them!”

Early in October came a round-robin from the Carrolls.  Would Susan come to them for Thanksgiving and stay until Josephine’s wedding on December third?  “It will be our last time all together in one sense,” wrote Mrs. Carroll, “and we really need you to help us over the dreadful day after Jo goes!”

Susan accepted delightedly for the wedding, but left the question of Thanksgiving open; her aunt felt the need of her for the anniversary.  Jinny would be at home from Berkeley and Alfred and his wife Freda were expected for Thanksgiving Day.  Mrs. Alfred was a noisy and assertive little person, whose complacent bullying of her husband caused his mother keen distress.  Alfred was a bookkeeper now, in the bakery of his father-in-law, in the Mission, and was a changed man in these days; his attitude toward his wife was one of mingled fear and admiration.  It was a very large bakery, and the office was neatly railed off, “really like a bank,” said poor Mrs. Lancaster, but Ma had nearly fainted when first she saw her only son in this enclosure, and never would enter the bakery again.  The Alfreds lived in a five-room flat bristling with modern art papers and shining woodwork; the dining-room was papered in a bold red, with black wood trimmings and plate-rail; the little drawing-room had a gas-log surrounded with green tiles.  Freda made endless pillows for the narrow velour couch, and was very proud of her Mission rocking-chairs and tasseled portieres.  Her mother’s wedding-gift had been a piano with a mechanical player attached; the bride was hospitable and she loved to have groups of nicely dressed young people listening to the music, while she cooked for them in the chafing-dish.  About once a month, instead of going to “Mama’s” for an enormous Sunday dinner, she and Alfred had her fat “Mama” and her small wiry “Poppa” and little Augusta and Lulu and Heinie come to eat a Sunday dinner with them.  And when this happened stout Mrs. Hultz always sent her own cook over the day before with a string of sausages and a fowl and a great mocha cake, and cheese and hot bread, so that Freda’s party should not “cost those kits so awful a lot,” as she herself put it.