Ralph threw himself down in the grass beside the little birch easel. Jean bent over her canvas, touching in some shadows on the trunks of the trees, absently. Her thoughts had wandered from the old orchard, as they did so often these days. It was the future that seemed more real to her, with its hopes and ambitions, than the present. Gilead was not one half so tangible as Campodino perched on the Campagna hills with the blue of the Mediterranean lapping at its feet. “Aren’t you afraid you’ll miss it all?” asked Ralph, suddenly. “Perhaps,” she glanced down at him in Jean’s own peculiar, impersonal way. To Ralph, she had always been the little princess royal, ever since he had first met her, that night a year ago, in the spring gloaming. Dorrie and Kit had met the stranger more than half way, and even Helen, the fastidious, had liked him at first sight, but with Jean, there had always been a certain amount of reserve, her absorption in her work always had hedged her around with thorns of aloofness and apparent shyness. “But you see after all, no matter how far one goes, one always comes back, if there are those you love best waiting for you.” “You’ll only be gone three months, won’t you?” Jean shook her head. “It depends on how I’m getting on. Cousin Beth says I can find out in that time whether I am just a plain barnyard chicken, or a real wild swan. Did you ever hear of how the islanders around Nantucket catch the young wild geese, and clip their wings? They keep them then as decoys, until there comes a day when the wings are full grown again, and the geese escape. Wouldn’t it be awful to imagine one were a captive wild goose, and then try to fly and discover you were just a nice little home bred White Leghorn pullet.” “Oh, Jean,” called Kit. “Cousin Roxy’s going, now.” Ralph rose, and extended his hand. “I hope your wings carry you far, Jean,” he said earnestly. “We’re leaving for Saskatoon Monday morning and I’ll hardly get over again as Honey and I are doing all the packing and crating, but you’ll see me again next spring, won’t you?” Jean laid her hand in his, frankly. “Why, I didn’t know you were going so soon,” she said. “Of course, I’ll see you if you come back east.” “I’ll come,” Ralph promised, and he stood where she left him, under the blossoming apple trees, watching the princess royal of Greenacres join her family circle. THE END TRANSCRIBER NOTES Misspelled words and printer errors have been corrected. Where multiple spellings occur, majority use has been employed. Punctuation has been maintained except where obvious printer errors occur. Where multiple versions of hyphenation occurred, majority use has been employed. End of Project Gutenberg's Jean of Greenacres, by Izola L. Forrester