On Sundays the old walks to the beach had been resumed, and the hills never had seemed to Susan as beautiful as they did this year, when the first spring sweetness began to pierce the air, and the breeze brought faint odors of grass, and good wet earth, and violets.  Spring this year meant to the girl’s glowing and ardent nature what it meant to the birds, with apple-blossoms and mustard-tops, lilacs and blue skies, would come the mating time.  Susan was the daughter of her time; she did not know why all the world seemed made for her now; her heritage of ignorance and fear was too great.  But Nature, stronger than any folly of her children, made her great claim none the less.  Susan thrilled in the sunshine and warm air, dreamed of her lover’s kisses, gloried in the fact that youth was not to pass her by without youth’s hour.

By March all Sausalito was mantled with acacia bloom, and the silent warm days were sweet with violets.  The sunshine was soft and warm, if there was still chill in the shade.  The endless weeks had dragged themselves away; Susan and Billy were going to be married.

Susan walked in a radiant dream, curiously wrapped away from reality, yet conscious, in a new and deep and poignant way, of every word, of every waking instant.

“I am going to be married next week,” she heard herself saying.  Other women glanced at her; she knew they thought her strangely unmoved.  She thought herself so.  But she knew that running under the serene surface of her life was a dazzling great river of joy!  Susan could not look upon it yet.  Her eyes were blinded.

Presents came in, more presents.  A powder box from Ella, candle-sticks from Emily, a curiously embroidered tablecloth from the Kenneth Saunders in Switzerland.  And from old Mrs. Saunders a rather touching note, a request that Susan buy herself “something pretty,” with a check for fifty dollars, “from her sick old friend, Fanny Saunders.”

Mary Lou, very handsomely dressed and prosperous, and her beaming husband, came down for the wedding.  Mary Lou had a hundred little babyish, new mannerisms, she radiated the complacency of the adored woman, and, when Susan spoke of Billy, Mary Lou was instantly reminded of Ferd, the salary Ferd made at twenty, the swiftness of his rise in the business world, his present importance.  Mary Lou could not hide the pity she felt for Susan’s very modest beginning.  “I wish Ferd could find Billy some nice, easy position,” said Mary Lou.  “I don’t like you to live out in that place.  I don’t believe Ma would!”

Virginia was less happy than her sister.  The Eastmans were too busy together to remember her loneliness.  “Sometimes it seems as if Mary Lou just likes to have me there to remind her how much better off she is,” said Virginia mildly, to Susan.  “Ferd buys her things, and takes her places, and all I can do is admire and agree!  Of course they’re angels,” added Virginia, wiping her eyes, “but I tell you it’s hard to be dependent, Sue!”