"Oh, my," I scoffed, "you ought to see the bouncing big Oregon apples Edith buys by the crate." Dr. Maynard shook his head and smiled. Then he came over and sat down beside me on the Italian seat. "Well, well," he sighed, "I suppose old Rip must get used to the changes that have taken place since he's been asleep--squash-courts and pergolas, great sweeping estates with granolithic drives and sunken gardens; new hotels; new postoffices; instead of the roomy, old-fashioned livery-stable hacks, taxicabs; instead of good old snappy New England Baldwins, apples imported from Oregon; and instead of a girl in a red Tam-o-Shanter and her father's old weather-beaten ulster, sitting behind the wheel of a little one-lunger automobile, running it, in all sorts of weather, like a young breeze--instead of that girl," said Dr. Maynard, looking me up and down closely, "a very correct and up-to-date young lady in kid gloves and a veil, a smart black and white checked suit, a very fashionable hat (_I_ should call it), with a bunch of primroses, to cap it all, pinned jauntily at her waist." I blushed with triumph. "I've just about come to the conclusion," added Dr. Maynard in a kind of wistful voice, "that I don't know San Francisco at all now." "Well," I laughed waveringly, "I do hope you'll find it a little more civilised than it was before." "_I_ never thought it was uncivilised," said Dr. Maynard quietly; "_I_ rather enjoyed it just as it was, to tell the truth. I shall be sorry to find many changes in it because I shall have to become acquainted with it all over again and my time is so short." "Short?" I exclaimed. I don't know why I had drawn the sudden conclusion that Dr. Maynard had come back to stay. His very next words put an end to my little half-hour of jubilance like the announcement of a death. "Yes," he said; "I'm sailing back to Germany in two weeks. I was appointed an executor of a distant relative's will, and it seemed necessary to come to New York and attend to it. Of course I couldn't be so near--San Francisco, without coming to see how it prospered after the earthquake. I'm glad to find you so happy, Bobbie. You've richly earned all this," he glanced around the display that surrounded us, "both you and Al, and it's really fine that the change in your circumstances came about, when _you_, Lucy, were still a young girl, and just ready to appreciate and enjoy good times, and pretty surroundings, and new young people. Sometimes the apparent catastrophes work out for our best happiness. You _are_ happy, aren't you, Bobbie?" "Oh, yes--perfectly happy," I flashed indignantly.