There was something very desolate in that atmosphere of dimmed sight and muted sound. It was barely sunset, but the chill of the dying year was in the air. The thought came to her, suddenly and very poignantly, of that wonderful night of spring, when she had first wandered along the cliff with the scent of the gorse-bushes rising like incense all around her, when she had first heard that magic, flute-like call of youth and love. A deep and passionate emotion filled and overfilled her heart with the memory. As she went up the little path to the school-house, her face was wet with tears. Dick had not returned, and she went into the little dining-room and busied herself with laying the cloth for supper. Their only indoor servant--a young village girl--was out that evening, but she could hear Mrs. Rickett who often came up to help moving about the kitchen. She did not feel in the mood for the good woman's chatter and delayed going in her direction as long as possible. So it came about that, pausing for a few moments at the window before doing so, she heard the click of the gate and saw the old postman coming up the path. He moved slowly and with some difficulty, being heavily laden as well as bowed with age and rheumatism. She went quickly to the outer door, and, accompanied by the growling Columbus, moved to meet him. "Evening, ma'am! Here's a parcel for you!" the old man said. "It's books, and it's all come to bits, but I don't think as I've dropped any of 'em. You'd best let me bring 'em straight in for I'm all fixed up with 'em now, and they'll only scatter if you tries to take 'em." She led the way within, commiserating him on the weight of his burden which he thumped down without ceremony on the white cloth that she had just spread. The parcel was certainly badly damaged, and books in white covers began to slide out of it the moment they were released. "I'll leave you to sort 'em, ma'am," he said airily. "Daresay as they're not much the worse. Schoolmaster's truck I've no doubt. If there was fewer books in the world, the postman would have an easier life than what he does and no one much worse off than they be now--except the clever folks as writes 'em! Well, I'll be getting along to the Court, ma'am, and I wish you a very good-night." He stumped away, and in the failing evening light Juliet began to gather up the confusion he had left behind. She found it was not a collection of paper-backed school-books as she had at first imagined, and since the contents of the parcel were very thoroughly scattered she glanced at them with idle curiosity as she laid them together. Then with a sudden violent start she picked up one of the volumes and looked at it closely. The title stood out with arresting clearness on the white paper jacket: _Gold of the Desert_ by _Dene Strange_. Author of _The Valley of Dry Bones_, _Marionettes_, etc.