was warm and the shadows flecked with its splendid radiance she delighted to wonder at the pattern of it, to walk where it was most golden, and follow with instinctive appreciation the holy corridors of the trees. 

 Color was not lost upon her. That wonderful radiance which fills the western sky at evening touched and unburdened her heart. 

 “I wonder,” she said once with girlish simplicity, “how it would feel to float away off there among those clouds.” 

 She had discovered a natural swing of a wild grape-vine, and was sitting in it with Martha and George. 

 “Oh, wouldn’t it be nice if you had a boat up there,” said George. 

 She was looking with uplifted face at a far-off cloud, a red island in a sea of silver. 

 “Just supposing,” she said, “people could live on an island like that.” 

 Her soul was already up there, and its elysian paths knew the lightness of her feet. 

 “There goes a bee,” said George, noting a bumbler winging by. 

 “Yes,” she said, dreamily, “it’s going home.” 

 “Does everything have a home?” asked Martha. 

 “Nearly everything,” she answered. 

 “Do the birds go home?” questioned George. 

 “Yes,” she said, deeply feeling the poetry of it herself, “the birds go home.” 

 “Do the bees go home?” urged Martha. 

 “Yes, the bees go home.” 

 “Do the dogs go home?” said George, who saw one traveling lonesomely along the nearby road. 

 “Why, of course,” she said, “you know that dogs go home.” 

 Prev. P 14/311 next