There appeared a breadth of rolling country, covered with verdure, and in the midst of it the white walls and long, shadowed veranda of an adobe house.

Freeman saw the vines clambering over the eaves and roof, the vases of earthenware suspended between the pillars and overflowing with flowers, the long windows, the steps descending into the garden.

Now a figure clad in white emerged from the door and advanced slowly to the end of the veranda.

He recognized the gait and bearing: he could almost fancy he discerned the beloved features.

She stood there for a moment, gazing, as it seemed, directly at him.
She raised her hands, and pressed them to her lips, then threw them outwards, with a gesture eloquent of innocent and tender passion.
Freeman's heart leaped: involuntarily he stretched out his arms, and murmured, "Miriam!" The next moment, a tall, dark figure, with white hair, wrapped in a blanket, came stalking behind her, and made a beckoning movement.