"I accept that reply," said Hazel. "As for me, I have got a smattering of so many subjects, all full of incredible truths, that my faith in the impossibility of anything is gone. Ah! if James Watt was only here instead of John Hazel—James Watt from the Abbey with a head as big as a pumpkin—he would not have gone groping about the island, writing on rocks, and erecting signals. No; he would have had some grand and bold idea worthy of the proposition."
"Well, so I think," said Helen, archly; "that great man with the great head would have begun by making a kite a hundred yards high."
"Would he? Well, he was quite capable of it."
"Yes; and rubbed it with phosphorus, and flown it the first tempest, and made the string fast to—the island itself."
"Well, that is an idea," said Hazel, staring; "rather hyperbolical, I fear. But, after all, it is an idea."
"Or else," continued Helen, "he would weave a thousand yards of some light fabric, and make balloons; then he would stop the pitch-fountain, bore a hole in the rock near it, and so get the gas, fill the balloons, inscribe them with our sad story and our latitude and longitude, and send them flying all over the ocean—there!"
Hazel was amazed.
"I resign my functions to you," said he. "What imagination! What invention!"
"Oh, dear no," said Helen slyly; "acts of memory sometimes pass for invention, you know. Shall I tell you? when first you fell ill you were rather light-headed, and uttered the strangest things. They would have made me laugh heartily, only I couldn't—for crying. And you said that about kites and balloons, every word."
"Did I? then I have most brains when I have least reason, that's all."