Across the shadowy band that was the bay a ferryboat,
pricked with hundreds of tiny lights, was moving toward the glittering
chain of Oakland. There was a light on Alcatraz, and other nearer lights
scattered through the dark masts and dim hulks of the vessels in the
harbour below her.
"It will be bright to-morrow!" Julia thought, resting her forehead
against the glass. She was weary and spent; a measureless exhaustion
seemed to enfold her. Yet under it all there glowed some new spark of
warm reassurance and certainty. "Thank God, I see my way clear at last!"
she said softly.
CHAPTER VII
The kitchen in the old Cox house formed a sort of one-story annex behind
the building, and had windows on three sides, so that on a certain
exquisite morning in March, four years later, sunlight flooded the two
eastern windows and fell in clear squares of brightness on the checkered
blue-and-white linoleum on the floor. There were thin muslin sash
curtains at these windows, and white shades had been drawn down to meet
them. Some trailing English ivy made a delicate tracery in dark green
beside one window, and two or three potted begonias on the sill lifted
transparent trembling blooms to the sun.
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