They sat down at table with Miss India, to whom by tacit consent no mention was made of the incident, and chattered gayly of all things save the one which was crying at their lips to be spoken. And Holly kept her secret well. XII. January and Winter had passed together. February was nearly a week old. Already the garden was astir. The violet-beds were massed with blue, and the green spikes of the jonquils showed tiny buds. There was a new balminess in the air, a new languor in the ardent sunlight. The oaks were tasseling, the fig-trees were gowning themselves in new green robes of Edenic simplicity, the clumps of Bridal Wreath were sprinkled with flecks of white that promised early flowering and the pomegranates were unfolding fresh leaves. On the magnolia burnished leaves of tender green squirmed free from brown sheaths like moths from their cocoons. The south wind blew soft and fresh from the Gulf, spiced with the aroma of tropic seas. Spring was dawning over Northern Florida. It was Saturday afternoon, and Holly was perched in the fig-tree at the end of the porch, one rounded arm thrown back against the dusky trunk to pillow her head, one hand holding her forgotten book, one slender ankle swinging slowly like a dainty pendulum from under the hem of her skirt. Her eyes were on the green knoll where the oaks threw deep shadow over the red-walled enclosure, and her thoughts wandered like the blue-jay that flitted restlessly through garden and grove. Life was a turbid stream, these days, filled with perplexing swirls――a stream that rippled with laughter in the sunlight, and sighed in its shadowed depths, and all the while flowed swiftly, breathlessly on toward――what? [Illustration] The sound of a horse’s hoofs on the road aroused Holly from her dreams. She lifted her head and listened. The hoof-beats slackened at the gate, and then drew nearer up the curving drive. The trees hid the rider, however, and Holly could only surmise his identity. It could scarcely be Mr. Winthrop, for he had gone off in the Major’s buggy early in the forenoon for an all-day visit to Sunnyside. Then it must be Julian, although it was unlike him to come so early. She slipped from her seat in the tree and walked toward the steps just as horse and rider trotted into sight. It was Julian――Julian looking very handsome and eager as he threw himself from the saddle, drew the reins over White Queen’s head and strode toward the girl. “Howdy, Holly?” he greeted. “Didn’t expect to see me so early, I reckon.” He took her hand, drew her to him, and had kissed her cheek before she thought to deny him. She had grown so used to having him kiss her when he came and departed, and his kisses meant so little, that she forgot. She drew herself away gravely. “I’ll call Uncle Ran,” she said.