CHAPTER XXXII
AT MARY RANDALL’S SUMMER HOME
Lake Geneva season was at its close. Most of the lake dwellers had closed their houses and returned to town. For those who remained late autumn had her glories. Woods and groves were gay in foliage. Orchards bowed their heads beneath their loads of ripened fruit. In shorn fields the birds, preparing for southern migration, sang of a year crowned with plenty.
Vines hung deep about the broad veranda of the villa where Mary Randall was resting from her labors in the company of her uncle and aunt. She sat alone in a corner of the veranda one sunny day, waiting for the arrival of the journalist Ambrose, one of her most efficient aids.
Anna, her faithful maid came with an armful of flowers and began arranging them on the table.
“You love those old-fashioned flowers even more than I do, I believe, Anna,” said Miss Randall.
“I do love them. They seem like the blossom of my vacation,” said Anna.
“That’s a pretty way to put it. Your vacation is to be a good long one. You have certainly earned it. You’re as worn as I am, after our battle. I never should have got through it without you.”
“Thank you, Miss Mary. Here comes the flower of all your workers,—Mr. Ambrose,” said the girl, and withdrew.