In good plain American, the
young man was pretty homesick.
Two-man's-lengths up the mountain, on the crest of the sturdy
hater's rock, the girl sat, loving the Caribbean Sea. Hers, also,
was a large contract, and she was much newer to it than was the
man to his, for she had only just discovered this vantage-ground
by turning accidentally into a side trail--quite a private little
side trail made by her unsuspected neighbor below--whence one
emerges from a sea of verdure into full view of the sea of azure.
For the time, she was content to rest there in the flow of the
breeze and feast her eyes on that broad, unending blue which
blessedly separated her from the United States of America and
certain perplexities and complications comprised therein.
Presently she would resume the trail and return to the city of
Caracuna, somewhere behind her. That is, she would if she could
find it, which was by no means certain. Not that she greatly
cared. If she were really lost, they'd come out and get her.
Meantime, all she wished was to rest mind and body in the
contemplation of that restful plain of cool sapphire, four
thousand feet below.
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