It was the first mention which had been made of the duke in almost a year. I had begun to think she had forgotten--or at least determined to forget. I should have known better. I handed her the letter. It was the only thing I could do. She took it and read it silently, still looking off at the purple cloud bank of the coast range with its snow patches melting into the fleece of the little clouds which seemed to rest upon them--the barren gold-and-violet mountains, so infinite, eternal, restful and inspiring. Her face was like marble and I thought of the old psalmist: "I lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my strength," and knew she would get strength from the coast range, from the infinite expanse of Nature, even as I had got it before now. "In a very brave action," she said automatically. Then she threw her head back in a proud gesture, as though somebody had tried to strike her and failed; and without another word she turned and went into the house. I allowed her to go alone. Somehow I had gradually come to recognize a difference between Alicia and other young women of my acquaintance--and I knew that there was nothing I could say to her just then. She had the strength of those hills, or rather mountains--she was made of their very substance. I felt helpless. Besides, it was time to go through the lower orchards, where the Hindus were stripping olives in fear of a possible touch of frost, and somebody had to attend to things. So I rose, much depressed but urged by the duty before me. That was women's salvation during the war--the pressure of work to be done. And Pinto was again in Washington. But that night Peaches became humanized. I suppose the darkness was too much for her. I was unable to endure her sobbing unless I could participate in it. And so I went into her room toward morning, and we were wretched in company. It was then that she showed me the wallet. "Oh, my dear!" I said. "If only you had a souvenir or something of his!" "I have!" replied poor Peaches unexpected. "I'll show it to you." She turned on the light and reached under her tear-stained pillow--an incongruously gay figure in her striped pyjamas--and produced an envelope from which she drew a worn case of black morocco leather. It was thin and flat and no bigger than the palm of your hand. "I have this, and two letters, and the rose he picked with the little gold knife I gave him," she said. "What is it?" I made inquiry. "I don't know," she said. "There's something written in Italian inside. He left it by accident on the day before he disappeared." "By accident?" I said. "How?" "Well, I found it on the sofa," said Peaches. "And it has his name in it. I was going to return it next day at luncheon--the luncheon to which he never came." Then she broke down again.