Excerpt from The Eagle's Mate

"Cousin Sally, do you put the spices first, or the salt?"

"The salt, of course, child! Don't you know how to make pot-pourri yet? And be sure that the rose-leaves are as dry as dry."

Silence again, broken only by the humming of many bees above Mrs. Breckenridge's rose garden, and the sharp whirring of grasshoppers out on the sunny lawn. In a little while another low note was added to the bees' song: Anemone had begun to croon one of her queer little airs, wordless, almost tuneless, just a lazy, well-satisfied mood made audible. So does a kitten purr in a warm corner. Anemone was eighteen, and had never thought consciously, nor felt painfully, in her whole life.

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