"And my side of the wager--what is that to
be?"
"That you will come to the rock day after to-morrow at this hour
and stand on the top and be a voice again and talk to me."
"Done! Send your treasures to the pier, for you'll surely lose.
And now take me to the road."
It was a single-file trail, and he walked in advance, silent as an
Indian. As they emerged from a thicket into the highway, above the
red-tiled city in its setting of emerald fields strung on the
silver thread of the Santa Clara River, she turned and gave him
her hand.
"Be at your rock to-morrow, and when you see the yacht steam out,
you'll know I'll be saying good-bye, and thank you for your
mountain treasures. Send them to Miss Brewster, care of the yacht
Polly. She's named after me. Is there anything the matter with my
shoes?" she broke off to inquire solicitously.
"Er--what? No." He lifted his eyes, startled, and looked out
across the quaint old city.
"Then is there anything the matter with my face?"
"Yes."
"Yes? Well, what?"
"It's going to be hard to forget," complained he of the goggles.
"Then look away before it's too late," she cried merrily; but her
color deepened a little.
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