This was Florida, at last, not the unreal, exotic brilliance of Palm Beach.

Here was her father's beloved Flowerland which she had loved as a child.

Here were pines and tall grass, sun-silvered, bending in the warm wind, and the song of a pine-wood sparrow! From the scrub ahead came his quiet song, infinitely sweet, infinitely plaintive like the faint, soft echo of a fairy's dream.

A long note and a shower of silver-sweet echoes, so it ran, the invisible singer seeming to sing for himself alone.

So might elfin bells have pealed from a thicket, inexpressibly low and tender.
Diane sat motionless, the free, wild grace of her seeming a part of the primeval quiet.