“But when?” interrupted Jean. “It isn’t that I want to know for my own pleasure, but you don’t know how fearfully precious these last years in the ’teens seem to me. There’s such a terrible lot of things to learn before I can really say I’ve finished.” “And one of the first things you have to learn is just that you never stop learning. That you never really start to learn until you attain the humility of knowing your own limitations. So don’t you worry, Jeanie, you can’t possibly go over to Europe and swallow its Art Galleries in three months. By the way, if you are really going, you had better start in learning some of the guide posts.” He crossed over to one of his book cases, and picked out an old well-worn Baedeker bound in red morocco, “Northern Italy.” He opened it lovingly, and its passages were well underlined and marked in pencil all the way through. There were tiny sprays of pressed flowers and four leaved clovers, a five pointed fig leaf, and some pale silver gray olive ones. “Leaves from Vallambrosa,” he quoted, softly. “Your mother and I followed those old world trails all through our honeymoon, my dear.” Jean leaned over his shoulder, eagerly, her arms clasped around his neck, her cheek pressed to his. “You dear,” she said, fervently. “Do you know what I’m going to do with the very first five thousand dollars I receive for a masterpiece? I shall send you and the Motherbird flying back to visit every single one of those places. Won’t you love it, though?” “I’d rather take all you kiddies with us. You gain so much more when you share your knowledge with others. Do you know what this west window makes me think of, Jean?” He pointed one hand to the small side window that looked far down the valley. “Somewhere over yonder lies New York. Often times through the past year, I have stood there, and felt like Dante at his tower window, in old Guido Di Rimini’s castle at Ravenna. Joe’s pigeons circling around down there make me think of the doves which he called ‘Hope’s messengers’ bringing him memories in his exile from his beloved Florence.” Jean slipped down on her knees beside him, her face alight with gladness. “Oh, Dad, Dad, you do want to go back,” she cried. “You don’t know how afraid I’ve been that you’d take root up here and stay forever. I know it’s perfectly splendid, and it has been a place of refuge for us all, but now that you are getting to be just like your old self—” Her father’s hand checked her. “Steady, girlie, steady,” he warned. “Not quite so fast. I am still a little bit uncertain when I try to speed up. We’ve got to be patient a little while longer.” Jean pressed his hand in hers, and understood. If it had been hard for them to be patient, it had been doubly so for him, groping his way back slowly, the past year, on the upgrade to health. Softly she repeated a poem that was a favorite of Cousin Roxy’s, and which he had liked to hear. THE HILLS OF REST