“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. “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 

 Prev. P 18/148 next