"No." She pauses a moment, and then, slowly opening her closed fingers, shows him the blue flowers lying therein.
"They are lovely," she says, in a low tone, "and I did wish for them. But never—never—do that again."
"Do what again?"
"Endanger your life for me."
"There was no danger—and you had expressed a wish for them."
CHAPTER X.
"Every one is as God made him, and oftentimes a great deal worse!"
—Miguel de Cervantes.
With a continuous sob and a roar from the distant ocean the storm beats on. All night it has hurled itself upon path and lawn with impotent fury; towards morning it still rages, and even now, when noonday is at its height, its anger is not yet expended.