Of course her lover-god, Apollo, was gone. She had known the
other day when she left him on the hill that she would not see
him again, for the look of his face had told her that. Of
course, it was better so. Now, everything would go on as had
been intended. Anna would come home; after this visit was over,
there would be New York again, and Eustace. Yes, she was brave
to share his duty with him, and the years would not be long. And
always these autumn days would be shining through the dark hours
of her life, these perfect days of sunshine without shadow. Of
their experiences she need not even tell, for she was not sure
that it had actually been real. She would keep it as a sacred
memory that was half a dream.

She was walking now by the rows of tall chrysanthemums, and she
reached out her fingers to touch them, for she could almost feel
their deep yellow through her finger-tips. It was like taking
counsel of them, and they, like all nature, were wise. Cypress
and acacia and palm stood about like strong comforters; help came
from the tangled vines upon the garden wall, from the matted
periwinkle on the ground at her feet, and the sweet late roses
blossoming in the dark.

Yes, he was gone, and the beauty and the power of him had
vanished. It was better so, she kept saying to herself, her
thoughts, no matter where they wandered, coming persistently
back, as if the idea, so obviously true, needed proving after
all. The only thing was, she would have liked to see him just
once more to show him how invincible she was. He had taken her
by surprise that day upon the hill, and had seen what she had not