“If you like,” I said, indifferently.
So we landed at Pleasure Dome, and then betook ourselves to the tiny graveyard, which was down beyond the orchard.
It was a lovely spot, shaded by the long branches of weeping willows and brightened by beds of carefully tended flowers. Lilies abounded, and there were patches of the lovely California poppies and screens covered with sweet peas.
I became interested in the graves, and March pointed out those of Alma’s parents and her little sister.
“The child was eight years old when she died,” I commented. “I thought it was an infant.”
“No, a girl. Alma remembers her, of course. But it was all before my day. I’ve only lived here seven years. Flowers enough on Tracy’s grave, in all conscience.”
The mound of the new grave was heaped with flowers, indeed an impressive sight. The growing flowers and the cut blossoms vied with each other in beauty, and harmonized into one glorious whole of gorgeous bloom.
All had left but two or three workmen, and they withdrew to a respectful distance while March and I stood there.
“Tell me, March, did you find anything? I can’t bear this suspense!”
“Please believe I don’t want to keep you on tenterhooks,” he said, with real regret in his tone. “But what I did discover is so contradictory, so impossible of solution, at present, that I can’t divulge it until I find some meaning to it. What did you make of the girl, Dora?”