The Rose Dawn - Stewart Edward White

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smouldered deep below the calm of her clear gaze as she looked about her. She stood without fidget, indeed without any motion at all, completely restful; but somehow at the same time she conveyed the impression of being charged for rapid, darting motion, like a humming bird. Her cheeks were brown, with deep rich red beneath the surface, and her features were piquantly irregular. The conclusion of an observer would have been that she was at least fifteen, with an afterwonder as to why she did not dress her age.

      That feature of the case scandalized Mrs. Judge Crosby. It always did scandalize her, every time she saw the child, so the novelty of the emotion was somewhat worn, though the expression of it had gained by practice. Mrs. Judge Crosby was of the type of fat woman that wears picture hats and purple, and rides in limousines with lots of glass. There were no limousines in those days, but that fact did not interfere with Mrs. Judge Crosby. She always established herself in chairs, and summoned people. Just now she was talking to Snowden Delmore.

      "Just look at that child!" she cried to the attentive poet. "Did you ever see anything so utterly absurd! Great long-legged thing dressed like a kindergarten! And such an outlandish rig! She looks like a little gypsy! I tell you, Mr. Delmore, say what you will, any child needs the influence of a woman, a mother. There is an example of what happens when a child is turned over to a man. She how she stands there! You would think she was the equal in age and social standing of any one here. It is almost impertinence. You agree with me, of course?"

      "Yes, yes, certainly!" hastened Delmore.

      As a matter of fact the poet was thinking that the garment with its queer colour combinations had a quaint attractive distinction of its own; and that the child's clear, bold, spirited pro​file as she looked off into space waiting for her elders to finish their conversation was fascinating in its suggestion of the usual things lacked and the unusual gained. Snowden Delmore was deep in his soul a real poet and he could occasionally see the point though he had a pretty thick highbrow and egotistical overlay. But who was he to dispute Mrs. Judge Crosby? Only Mrs. Doctor Wallace did that.

      The Colonel continued to stand with his hand affectionately on Brainerd's thin shoulder.

      "You need not stay a moment longer than you wish. I am only too glad that you have come. You must wish Allie happiness on her birthday, however, before you go."

      "I wouldn't fail to do that, Colonel," said Brainerd, with a softening of expression.

      "That's right! that's right! And now let us get over to the Grove. Allie must be there already. How are you?"

      "Me? Oh, well enough! Old Wallace says my bellows are getting fairly serviceable. I notice I can go ten hours after quail, all right enough; but I can't seem to go more than ten minutes after good honest work. Colonel, I'm beginning to believe I'm a fraud!"

      "It's old Nature working her way with you, Brainerd. You mind her. She knows best. If she says hunt quail and don't build fences, you obey her. Let me tell you a secret: I found it out last time I was up in the city with Mrs. Peyton. I got all tired out going around shopping with her, and I figured afterward that I had actually walked just over two miles. Two miles, sir! and I mighty near had to go to bed when I came in. I've often ridden over to Los Quitos and back in a day, and that makes sixty-five miles. How do you account for it? Eh? It isn't what you do with your body that makes you tired: it's what you do with your mind. And so you hunt your quail and get well."

      He still kept his hand on Brainerd's shoulder, which he patted gently, from time to time, emphasizing the points of this speech.

      "Colonel," said the latter with a short laugh, "as an apologist for laziness you stand alone. I now feel myself the model of all the virtues."

      ​"That's right; that's right," returned the old man, much pleased. "And how are the crops?"

      "Well, the bees are laying up a lot of indifferent muddy honey. The cherry crop seems to please the birds, of which there are six to each cherry. I found a couple of young apples starting yesterday. The spring still seems to be damp. There were two coyotes on the hill last night. The mortgage is a little better than holding its own. That's about one month's history. You can repeat for next month, except that those two apples will probably get worms."

      The Colonel laughed, and patted Brainerd's shoulder again.

      "If I did not know you," he said, "I would say that you were getting bitter. But I know you. How does the new pony go, Puss?" he asked the girl.

      She turned her direct unembarrassed gaze at him.

      "He is wonderful; the best I have ridden; I love him!"

      "That is something I want to speak to you about," said Brainerd. "It is good of you to keep sending Daphne ponies to ride, and I appreciate it; but I really cannot permit you to continue it. You must let me buy this pony, if it is within my means."

      "The animals must be exercised. It is a favour to me to get one of them cared for and ridden."

      Daphne glanced up and caught the look of distress in the Colonel's face.

      "Daddy, you are interfering with what does not concern you," she said calmly. "This is a matter entirely between my Fairy Godfather and me."

      "Is it, really? Well upon my word! " cried Brainerd, bristling up.

      But the Colonel interposed, delighted at this unexpected aid.

      ​"Yes, yes, to be sure. How dare you interfere, Brainerd, between me and my goddaughter. That is our affair. We will settle it ourselves."

      He seized Daphne's hand and the two disappeared together in the direction of the Grove, leaving Brainerd looking after them, a slight quirk relieving the bitterness of his mouth.

      IV

      The Grove was a-buzz with life. The huge barbecued joints had been dug up from the pit and now lay before Benito and his assistants, who sliced them deftly with long, keen knives and laid the slices on plates. These were quickly snatched away by waiting laughing girls who took them in precarious piles to the tables. There waited the guests, cracking walnuts, eating raisins and oranges, making vast inroads on the supposedly ornamental desserts while awaiting the substantials. The volunteer waitresses darted here and there. They were girls of the country, both American and Spanish born. The former were magnificent figures cast on heroic lines; tall, full bosomed, large limbed, tawny and gold, true California products; the latter smaller, with high insteps, small bones, powdered faces, beautiful eyes. All alike were very starched and very busy. Men followed them with galvanized pails containing the celebrated sauce—composed mainly of onions, tomatoes, and chilis cunningly blended; or pans with potatoes or tomales or stuffed onions. One stout old California woman dressed in oldstyle rebozo and mantilla, her round face shining with heat and pleasure, carried a long platter heaped high with tortillas which she urged on everyone.

      "Da pancak' of old time," she cried. "Eet is veray goot. Try him."

      Another group were close gathered at the short table that had been erected in front of the wine kegs. Here José and a number of helpers worked busily filling tin cups that were continually thrust at their attention. At this table there seemed little need for the help of the tripping laughing young waitresses. Everyone appeared willing and able to help himself. The wine ​was of the country, and light in content, yet already its effects could be noticed in the loosening of tongue, the relaxing of the bucolic stiffness that had in certain quarters inaugurated the party. Young chaps besought the flitting girls to stop for but a moment's chat, or flung out an amusing impertinence that caught some damsel on the fly. There was a great deal of laughter. A Spanish orchestra back in the trees twanged away on its guitars, and even though unheeded, furnished a background to the noise.

      An

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