Robert Lloyd was sitting on the veranda behind the green trail of vines when Ellen came up the walk.

He never forgot the girl's face looking over her bunch of sweet-peas.

There was in it something indescribably youthful and innocent, almost angelic.

The light from the window made her hair toss into gold; her blue eyes sought Cynthia with the singleness of blue stars.

It was evident whom she had come to see.