They joined the others just below the top of the hill, and were presently fighting the stiff wind that blew straight across the ridge.  Once over it, however, the wind dropped, the air was deliciously soft and fresh and their rapid walking made the day seem warm.  There was no road; their straggling line followed the little shelving paths beaten out of the hillside by the cows.

Far below lay the ocean, only a tone deeper than the pale sky.  The line of the Cliff House beach was opposite, a vessel under full sail was moving in through the Golden Gate.  The hills fell sharply away to the beach, Gioli’s ranch-house, down in the valley, was only one deeper brown note among all the browns.  Here and there cows were grazing, cotton-tails whisked behind the tall, dried thistles.

The Carrolls loved this particular walk, and took it in all weathers.  Sometimes they had a guest or two,—­a stray friend of Philip’s, or two or three of Anna’s girl friends from the hospital.  It did not matter, for there was no pairing off at the Carroll picnics.  Oftener they were all alone, or, as to-day, with Susan and Billy, who were like members of the family.

To-day Billy, Jimmy and Betsey were racing ahead like frolicking puppies; up banks, down banks, shrieking, singing and shouting.  Phil and Josephine walked together, they were inseparable chums, and Susan thought them a pretty study to-day; Josephine so demurely beautiful in her middy jacket and tam-o-shanter cap, and Philip so obviously proud of her.

She and Anna, their hands sunk in their coat-pockets, their hair loosening under the breezes, followed the others rather silently.

And swiftly, subtly, the healing influences of the hour crept into Susan’s heart.  What of these petty little hopes and joys and fears that fretted her like a cloud of midges day and night?  How small they seemed in the wide silence of these brooding hills, with the sunlight lying warm on the murmuring ocean below, and the sweet kindly earth underfoot!

“I wish I could live out here, Nance, and never go near to people and things again!”

“Oh, don’t you, Sue!”

There was a delay at the farmhouse for cream.  The ranchers’ damp dooryard had been churned into deep mud by the cows, strong odors, delicious to Susan, because they were associated with these happy days, drifted about, the dairy reeked of damp earth, wet wood, and scoured tinware.  The cream, topping the pan like a circle of leather, was loosened by a small, sharp stick, and pushed, thick and lumpy, into the empty jam jar that Josephine neatly presented.  A woman came to the ranch-house door with a grinning Portuguese greeting, the air from the kitchen behind her was close, and reeked of garlic and onions and other odors.  Susan and Anna went in to look at the fat baby, a brown cherub whose silky black lashes curved back half an inch from his cheeks.  There were half a dozen small children in the kitchen, cats, even a sickly chicken or two.