She was dressed, now, as Conrad Lagrange had seen her that first time in the garden, when he was hiding from Louise Taine.

The man at the window drew a little back, with a low exclamation of pleased surprise and wonder.

Was that lovely creature there among the roses his girl comrade of the hills?
The Sibyl Andres he had known--in the short skirt and high boots of her mountain garb--was a winsome, fanciful, sometimes serious, sometimes wayward, maiden.

This Sibyl Andres, gowned in clinging white, was a slender, gracefully tall, and beautifully developed woman.
Slowly, she came toward the studio end of the garden; pausing here and there to bend over the flowers as though in loving, tender greeting; singing, the while, her low-voiced melody; unafraid of the sunshine that enveloped her in a golden flood, undisturbed by the careless fingers of the wind that caressed her hair.

A girl of the clean out-of-doors, she belonged among the roses, even as she had been at home among the pines and oaks of the mountains.