"Probably not; but see how beautiful they are."
They were indeed beautiful, for no spot is more rich in fungi of varied hues than the Adirondack woods. There were specimens ranging from pale to white, from cream to lemon yellow—pink that blended into shades of red and scarlet—gray that deepened to blue and even purple—numerous shades of buff and brown, and some of the mottled coloring. Some were large, almost gigantic; some tiny ones were like bits of ivory or coral. Frank evinced artistic enthusiasm, but a certain gastronomic reserve.
"Wonderful!" he said. "I did not suppose there were such mushrooms in the world—so beautiful. I know now what the line means which says, 'How beautiful is death.'"
There was a little commotion just then at the doorway of the Lodge, and a group of guests—some with letters, others with looks of resignation or disappointment—appeared on the veranda. From among them, Mrs. Deane, a rather frail, nervous woman, hurried toward Mr. Weatherby with evident pleasure. She had been expecting him, she declared, though Constance had insisted that he would think twice before he started once for that forest isolation. They would be in their own quarters in a few days, and it would be just a pleasant walk over there. There were no hard hills to climb. Mr. Deane walked over twice a day. He was there now, overseeing repairs. The workmen were very difficult.
"But there are some hills, Mamma," interposed Constance—"little ones. Perhaps Mr. Weatherby won't care to climb at all. He has already declared against my mushrooms. He said something just now about their fatal beauty—I believe that was it. He's like all the rest of you—opposed to the cause of science."
Mrs. Deane regarded the young man appealingly.
"Try to reason with her," she said nervously. "Perhaps she'll listen to you. She never will to me. I tell her every day that she will poison herself. She's always tasting of new kinds. She's persuaded me to eat some of those she had cooked, and I've sent to New York for every known antidote for mushroom poisoning. It's all right, perhaps, to study them and collect them, but when it comes to eating them to prove that the book is right about their being harmless, it seems like flying in the face of Providence. Besides, Constance is careless."
"I remember her telling me, as reason for not wanting to be a doctor, something about giving you the wrong medicine last winter."
"She did—some old liniment—I can taste the stuff yet. Constance, I do really think it's sinful for you to meddle with such uncertain subjects. Just think of eating any of those gaudy things. Constance! How can you?"
Constance patted the nervous little lady on the cheek.