Neither spoke until they were some distance away.

Then the novelist, checking his quick stride, pointed toward the shadowy bulk of the mountains that heaved their mighty crests and peaks in solemn grandeur high into the midnight sky.
"Well, boy," he said, "the mountains are still there.

It's good to see them again, isn't it ?" Reaching home, the older man bade his friend good night.

But the artist, declaring that he was not yet ready to turn in, went, with pipe and Czar for company, to sit for a while on the porch.
Looking away over the dark mass of the orange groves to the distant peaks, he lived over again, in his thoughts, those weeks of comradeship with Sibyl Andres in the hills.

Every incident of their friendship he recalled--every hour they had spent together amid the scenes she loved--reviewing every conversation--questioning searching, wondering, hoping, fearing.
Later, he went out into the rose garden--her garden--where the air was fragrant with the perfume of the flowers she tended with such loving care.
In the soft, still darkness of the night, the place seemed haunted by her presence.