Following pathways, now damp beneath the shade of melancholy spruce and pine, now hard and dry between velvety lawns, they came out on a large circular opening. Here Mariposa sat down on a bench, with her back to a sheltering mass of fir and hemlock, the splendid sunshine pouring on her. Benito, with his bag in his hand, trotted off to the grassy slope opposite where custom has ordained that little boys may roll about and play. He had hardly settled himself there to the further enjoyment of his nuts when another little boy appeared and made friendly overtures, with his eyes on the bag. Mariposa could not hear them, but she could see the first advance and Benito’s somewhat wary eyings of the stranger. In a few moments the formalities of introduction were over, and they were both lying on their stomachs on the grass, kicking gently with their toes, while the bag stood between them. Mariposa had intended to read, but her book lay unopened in her lap. The sun in California is something more than warming and cheerful. It is medicinal. There is some unnamed balm in its light that soothes the tormented spirit and rests and revivifies the wearied body. It is at once a stimulant and a sedative. It seems to have sucked up healing breaths from the resinous forests inland and to be exhaling them again upon those who can not seek their aid. As the soothing rays enveloped her, Mariposa felt the strain of mind and body relax and a sense of rest suffuse her. She stretched herself into a more reposeful attitude, one arm thrown along the back of the bench. Her book lay beside her on the seat. To keep the blinding light from her eyes she tilted her hat forward till the shade of its brim cut cleanly across the middle of her face. Her mouth, which was plainly in view, had the expression of suffering that is acquired by the mouths of those who have been forced to endure suddenly and silently. Her thoughts reverted to Essex and the scene in the cottage. She wondered if the smart and shame of it would ever lessen--if she would ever see him again, and what he would say. She could not imagine him as anything but master of himself. But he was no longer master of her. The subtile spell he had once exercised was forever broken. She heard a foot on the gravel, but did not look up; several people had passed close to her crossing to the main drive. The new-comer advanced toward her idly, noting the grace of her attitude, the rich and yet elegant proportions of her figure. Her face was turned from him, but he saw the roll of rust-colored hair beneath her hat, started, and quickened his pace. He had come to a halt beside her before she looked up startled. A quick red rushed into her face. He, for his part, stood suave and smiling, holding his hat in one hand, no expression on his face but one of frank pleasure. Even in his eyes there was not a shade of consciousness. “What a piece of luck!” he said. “Who’d have thought of meeting you here?”