AN EPILOGUE
Strangers no longer live in the cottage
Stuart built on the hills. A jaunty sailboat
nods at the buoy near the water’s edge.
The drone of bees from the fruit trees in full bloom
on the terraces promise a luscious harvest in the
summer and fall. The lawn is a wilderness of
flowers and shimmering green. The climbing roses
on the southeastern side of the house have covered
it to the very eaves of the roof. Stuart has
just cut them away from Harriet’s window because
they interfered with her view of the bay and sea and
towering hills they love so well. And the crooning
of a little mother over a baby’s cradle fills
the home with music sweeter to its builder than any
note ever heard in grand opera.