The sun flamed beyond the woodland. The Poet joined with Marian and Fulton in praising the banners of purple and gold that were flung across the west, while Marjorie tugged at his umbrella.
“It’s all good—everything is good! A pretty good, cheerful kind of world when you consider it. I think,” he added with his eyes on Marian, “that maybe Miles can find time to do the pictures for Fred’s book. His old place at the bank won’t be ready until the first of the year, and that will give him a chance to work up something pretty fine. I’ll see that publisher about it when he comes; and—” He withdrew several steps, and looked absently at the glories of the dying day before concluding, “it’s just as well to keep all the good things in the family.”
When they hurried to the gate, they saw him walking in his leisurely fashion toward the trolley terminus, swinging his umbrella. The golden light enfolded him and the scarlet maples bent down in benediction.
THE END
The Riverside Press
CAMBRIDGE . MASSACHUSETTS
U . S . A