Recently so many things had
arisen to distract her attention. Many days she had not been
able to keep Eileen's face off her geometry papers; and again she
saw Gilman's, anxious and pain-filled. Sometimes she found
herself lifting her eyes from tasks upon which she was
concentrating with all her might, and with no previous thought
whatever she was searching for Donald Whiting, and when she saw
him, coming into muscular and healthful manhood, she returned to
her work with more strength, deeper vision, a quiet, assured
feeling around her heart. Sometimes, over the edge of Literature
and Ancient History, Peter Morrison looked down at her with
gravely questioning eyes and dancing imps twisting his mouth
muscles, and Linda paused a second to figure upon what had become
an old problem with her. Why did her wild-flower garden make
Peter Morrison think of a graveyard? What was buried there
besides the feet of her rare flowers? She had not as yet found
the answer.
This day her thoughts were on Peter frequently because she
intended to see him that night. She was going to share with him
a supper of baked ham and beans and bread and butter and pickled
onions and little nut cakes, still warm from Katy's oven. She
was going to take Katy with her in order that she might see Peter
Morrison's location and the house for his dream lady, growing at
the foot of the mountain like a gay orchid homing on a forest
tree. To Linda it was almost a miracle, the rapidity with which
a house could be erected in California.
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