"I shan't hear you again,
unless, perhaps, the echoes have kept your voice to play with."
"Oh, oh! Is this the language of science? You know I almost think
I should like to come--if I could. But I can't."
"Why not?"
"Because we leave to-morrow."
"Not across to the southern coast? It isn't safe. Fever--"
"No; by Puerto del Norte."
"There's no boat."
"Yes, there is. You can just see her funnel over that white slope.
It's our yacht."
"And you think you are going in her to-morrow?"
"Think? I know it."
"No," he contradicted.
"Yes," she asserted, quite as concisely.
"No," he repeated. "You're mistaken."
"Don't be absurd. Why?" "Look out there, over that tree to the
horizon."
"I'm looking."
"Do you see anything?"
"Yes; a sort of little smudge."
"That's why."
"It's a very shadowy sort of why."
"There's substance enough under it."
"A riddle? I'll give it up."
"No; a bet. I'll bet you the treasures of my mountain-side.
Orchids of gold and white and purple and pink, butterflies that
dart on wings of fire opal--"
"Beetles, to know which is to love them, and love but them
forever," she laughed.
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