behind the house, and he knew that the pair of holiday makers would
pass.

There they were! What could the rain matter to them? Clad in high
hunting boots and gleaming yellow oilskin coats, and with hunters' caps
on their heads, they defied the weather. Anything prettier than
Roberta's face under that cap, with the rich yellow beneath her chin,
her face alight with laughter and good fellowship, Richard vowed to
himself he had never seen. He wanted to wave a farewell to them, but
they did not look up at his window, and he would not knock upon the
pane--like a sick schoolboy shut up in the nursery enviously watching
his playmates go forth to valiant games.

When they had disappeared at a fast walk down the gravelled path to the
gate at the back of the grounds, taking by this route a straight course
toward the open country which lay in that direction not more than a mile
away, the grandson of old Matthew Kendrick went reluctantly back to his
work. He hated it, yet--he was tremendously glad he had taken the job.
If only there might be many oases in the dull desert such as this had
been!

* * * * *

"How do you like him, Rob?" inquired the young brother, splashing along
at his sister's side down the country road.

"Like whom?" Roberta answered absently, clearing her eyes of raindrops
by the application of a moist handkerchief.

"Mr. Kendrick."