The zinc mat under the big cook-stove was scoured to a dull glimmer, while that swart altar itself shone darkly from its daily rubbing.
There was no dust nor smell of dust; no grease spots, no litter anywhere.

But the place bore no atmosphere of contented pride, as does a Dutch, German or French kitchen, it spoke of Labor, Economy and Duty--under restriction.
In the dead quiet of the afternoon Diantha and her mother sat there sewing.

The sun poured down through the dangling eucalyptus leaves.

The dry air, rich with flower odors, flowed softly in, pushing the white sash curtains a steady inch or two.

Ee-errr!--Ee-errr!--came the faint whine of the windmill.
To the older woman rocking in her small splint chair by the rose-draped window, her thoughts dwelling on long dark green grass, the shade of elms, and cows knee-deep in river-shallows; this was California--hot, arid, tedious in endless sunlight--a place of exile.
To the younger, the long seam of the turned sheet pinned tightly to her knee, her needle flying firmly and steadily, and her thoughts full of pouring moonlight through acacia boughs and Ross's murmured words, it was California--rich, warm, full of sweet bloom and fruit, of boundless vitality, promise, and power--home! Mrs.Bell drew a long weary sigh, and laid down her work for a moment.
"Why don't you stop it Mother dear?
There's surely no hurry about these things." "No--not particularly," her mother answered, "but there's plenty else to do." And she went on with the long neat hemming.