Married—­nonsense!  Why, what did she know of life, of submission and courage and sacrifice?  At the first strain, at the first real test, she would want to run home to her Daddy again, to “stop playing”—!  It would be years, many years, before the snowy frills, and the pale gold head, and the firm, brown little hand would be ready for that!

Not many hours after he went slowly up to bed morning began to creep into the little valley.  The redwoods turned gray, and then dark green, the fog stirred, and a first shaft of bright sunlight struck across a shoulder of the hills, and pierced the shadows about the brown bungalow.  Alix, at her early bath, heard quail calling, and looked out to see the last of the fog vanishing at eight o’clock, and to get a wet rush of fragrance from the Persian lilac, blooming this year for the first time.  At half-past eight she came out into the garden, to find her father somewhat ruefully studying the tumbled ruins of the yellow banksia rose.  The garden was still wet, but warming fast; she picked a plume of dark and perfumed heliotrope, and began to fasten it in his coat lapel while she kissed him.

“We’ll never get that back on the roof, my dear boy,” Alix said maternally.

Her father pursed his lips, shook his head doubtfully.  The rose, a short, week ago, had been spreading fan-like branches well toward the ridge-pole, a story and a half above their heads.  But the great wind of yestereve that had ended the spring and brought in the summer had dragged it from its place and flung it, a jumble of emerald leaves and sweet clusters of creamy blossoms, across the path and the steps of the porch.  Alix looked up at the outward curve of the reversed branches, bent almost to the splitting point in the unfamiliar direction, and whistled.  She tentatively tugged at a loose spray, and stood biting her thumb.

“Why it should have kept its place for fifteen years and then suddenly flopped, is a mystery to me!” she observed resentfully.

“Well, the truth is,” her father confessed, “you were quite right last night.  When I pruned it, a week ago, I may have undermined it.”

“You never will listen to reason!” his daughter remarked absently, her attention distracted by the setter puppy who came clumsily gambolling toward her.  “Hello, old Bumpydoodles!” she added, with rich affection, kissing the dog’s silky head, and burying both hands in his feathered collar.  “Hello, old Buck!”

“Alexandra, for heaven’s sake stop handling that brute!” said Peter Joyce disgustedly, coming up the path.  “I dare say you’ve not had your breakfast, either.  Go wash your hands!  ’Morning, Doctor!”

Father and daughter turned to smile upon him, a tall, lean man, with a young face and a finely groomed head, and with touches of premature silver at his temples.  He was very much at home here, had been their closest friend for many years.