Michael went about the work of preparing to go with a look of solemn joy. Solemn because he felt that the wonderful companionship he had had alone with Starr was so soon to end. Joyful because he could be with her still and know she had passed through the danger of the terrible disease and come safely out of the shadow with her beauty as vivid as ever. Besides, he might always serve her, and they were friends now, not enemies—that was a great deal! The little world of Old Orchard stood on tiptoe that lovely spring morning when the party came down. The winding road that led to the cottage was arched all over with bursting bloom, for the apple trees had done their best at decorating for the occasion and made a wondrous canopy of pink and white for Starr to see as she passed under. Not a soul was in sight as they drove up to the cottage save Sam, standing respectfully to receive them in front of the piazza, and Lizzie, vanishing around the corner of the cottage with her pretty boy toddling after—for Lizzie had come down to be a waitress at Rose Cottage for the summer;—but every soul on the farm was watching at a safe distance. For Sam, without breathing a word, had managed to convey to them all the knowledge that those who were coming as their guests were beloved of Michael, their angel-hearted man. As though it had been a great ceremony they stood in silent, adoring groups behind a row of thick hedges and watched them arrive, each one glorying in the beauty of her whom in their hearts they called “the boss’s girl.” The room stood wide and inviting to receive them. There was a fire of logs on the great hearth, and a deep leather chair drawn up before it, with a smaller rocker at one side, and a sumptuous leather coach for the invalid just to the side of the fireplace, where the light of the flames would not strike the eyes, yet the warmth would reach him. Soft greens and browns were blended in the silk pillows that were piled on the couch and on the seats that appeared here and there about the walls as if they grew by nature. The book-case was filled with Michael’s favorites, Will French had seen to this, and a few were scattered on the big table where a green shaded lamp of unique design, a freshly cut magazine, and a chair drawn at just the right angle suggested a pleasant hour in the evening. There were two or three pictures—these Michael had selected at intervals as he learned to know more about art from his study at the exhibitions. “Oh!” breathed Starr. “How lovely! It is a real home!” and the thought struck her that it would probably be Michael’s and Hester’s some day. However, she would not let shadows come spoiling her good time now, for it _was_ her good time and she had a right to it; and she too was happy in the thought that she and Michael were friends, the kind of friends that can never be enemies again.