The last faint tint of sunset color went from the sky back of the San Gabriels; while, close to the mountain peaks and ridges, the stars came out.

The rows and the contour of the orange groves could no longer be distinguished the forms of the nearby trees were lost--the rich, lustrous green of their foliage brushed out with the dull black of the night; while the twinkling lights of the distant towns and hamlets, in the valley below, shone as sparkling jewels on the inky, velvet robe that, fold on fold, lay over the landscape.
When the two had smoked in silence, for some time, the artist said slowly, "You knew my mother very well, did you not, Mr.Lagrange ?" "We were children together, Aaron." As he spoke, the man's deep voice was gentle, as always, when the young man's mother was mentioned.
Again, for a little, neither spoke.

As they sat looking away to the mountains, each seemed occupied with his own thoughts.

Yet each felt that the other, to a degree, understood what he, himself, was thinking.
Once more, the artist broke the silence,--facing his mother's friend with quiet resolution,--as though he felt himself forced to speak but knew not exactly how to begin.

"Did you know her well--after--after my father's death--and while I was abroad ?" The other bowed his head--"Yes." "Very well ?" "Very well." As if at loss for words, Aaron King still hesitated.