An additional, and by no means unimportant contributory factor, was the sudden onrush of fine weather.
Never had there been such a spring—at least never within the memory of the owner of the house on the Point. The soft breath of the south wind; the radiance of the sunshine; the gentle lapping of the waves on the spangled shore; the stillness; the vivid beauty of the ocean's changing colors—all these blended to make a world that caught the breath and subordinated every mood save one of exuberant joy.
Against a heaven gentian blue, snowy gulls wheeled and dipped, and far beyond them, miniature white sails cut the penciled indigo of the horizon.
The old grey house with its fan-light and beaded doorway stood out in colonial simplicity from the background of sea and sky like a dim, silvered picture, every angle of it soft in relief against the splendors that flanked it.
Marcia sang at her work—sang not so much because there was peace in her heart as because the gladness about her forced her to forget her pain.
Sylvia sang, too, or rather whistled in a gay, boyish fashion and in company with Prince Hal raced like a young colt up the beach.
Only a day or two more passed before it was possible to get Stanley Heath, warmly wrapped in rugs, out on the sheltered veranda where, like the others, he reveled in the sunshine.
His cheeks bronzed, his eyes became clear and bright, laughter curled his lips. If just around the corner the spectre of trouble loitered, its presence was not, apparently, able to put to flight his lightheartedness. Over and over again he declared that every hour spent in this lotus-eaters' country was worth a miser's fortune.
Sometimes when he lay motionless in the steamer-chair looking seaward beneath the rim of his soft felt hat, or following the circling gulls with preoccupied gaze Marcia, peeping at him from the window wondered of what he was thinking.
That the fancies which intrigued him were pleasant and that he enjoyed his own company there could be no question.