Chapter XXV  

  Chapter XXVI  

  Chapter XXVII  

   

    

       Chapter I     

       A humming-bird dipped through the air and lit upon the palm-tree just below the open window; the long drowsy call of a crowing cock came from afar off; the sun spun down in the subdued splendor of a hazy veil. It was a dustless, hence an anomalous, summer’s afternoon in San Francisco.     

       Ruth Levice sat near the window, lazily rocking, her long lithe arms clasped about her knees, her face a dream of the day. The seasons single out their favorite moods: a violet of spring-time woos one, a dusky June rose another; to-day the soft, languorous air had, unconsciously to her, charmed the girl’s waking dream.     

       So removed was she in spirit from her surroundings that she heard with an obvious start a knock at the door. The knock was immediately followed by a smiling, plump young woman, sparkling of eye, rosy of cheek, and glistening with jewels and silk.     

       “Here you are, Ruth,” she exclaimed, kissing her heartily; whereupon she sank into a chair, and threw back her bonnet-strings with an air of relief. “I came up here at once when the maid said your mother was out.       Where is she?”      

       “Out calling. You look heated, Jennie; let me fan you.”      

       “Thanks. How refreshing! Sandal-wood, is it not? Where is your father?”      

       “He is writing in the library. Do you wish to see him?”      

       “Oh, no, no! I must see you alone. I am so glad Aunt Esther is out. Why aren’t you with her, Ruth? You should not let your mother go off alone.”      

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