"Well, boy," he said, "the mountains are still there. It's good to see
them again, isn't it?"
Reaching home, the older man bade his friend good night. But the artist,
declaring that he was not yet ready to turn in, went, with pipe and Czar
for company, to sit for a while on the porch.
Looking away over the dark mass of the orange groves to the distant peaks,
he lived over again, in his thoughts, those weeks of comradeship with
Sibyl Andres in the hills. Every incident of their friendship he
recalled--every hour they had spent together amid the scenes she
loved--reviewing every conversation--questioning searching, wondering,
hoping, fearing.
Later, he went out into the rose garden--her garden--where the air was
fragrant with the perfume of the flowers she tended with such loving care.
In the soft, still darkness of the night, the place seemed haunted by her
presence. Quietly, he moved here and there among the roses--to the little
gate in the Ragged Robin hedge, through which she came and went; to the
vine-covered arbor where she had watched him at his work; and to the spot
where she had stood, day after day, with hands outstretched in greeting,
while he worked to make the colors and lines upon his canvas tell the
secret of her loveliness.
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