Out among the mass of red and yellow gold trailed a strand of frosty, glimmering pearls. The great diamonds, that flashed their rivers of light; and rubies, that mingled their rays of rose and crimson with the green glint of emeralds; lurid opals, sapphires of sparkling blue or violet red; amethysts of pink, purple, and lilac,—all spoke in proudest tones of the wealth of Monteluma; and, with a weary sigh, Clifford thought of the wide social gulf which now yawned between himself and the heiress of all this splendor.
After securing all the treasure in the chest, and locking the door securely behind, young Warlow rode stealthily homeward as the first blush of crimson was mantling the eastern sky, and the great planets were growing pale.
Chapter XVIII.
In the cool of the following evening we find Clifford swinging dreamily in a hammock on the porch, while near by is ever-busy Maud, preparing a basket of martynias for the pickle-jar. As she deftly snipped off the curling ends of the green pods, locally known as "Devil Claws"—a very appropriate name indeed, when applied to the mature fruit—she cast a glance of suspicion toward her brother, and said:—
"I never like to see you so quiet, Clifford. I have always noticed that silent people need watching. Now, here is Rob, for instance:—Just so long as we can hear him whistling or singing, we rest contentedly; but the very moment he becomes quiet—ah! look out! There is mischief on hand every time; and we are likely to miss pie from the pantry soon, or find that the rogue has filched a bowl of cream down cellar. No, sir; you have been so suspiciously reticent to-day that I am led to think you have learned something since we had our talk yesterday."
"I always endeavor to store up some treasure of wisdom daily, my sister," Clifford replied, with lazy evasion, as he swung a polished boot to and fro over the hammock's side, and turned a feverish face toward Maud. Then, while a look of sarcasm gleamed in his half-closed eyes, he added, as she continued to glance askance: "Who was the philosopher, sage, or poet that said—or should have said, at least—something about the moral obloquy of groping through life with a cross eye?"
"Whoever that fellow was who strangled on such a proverb, I'll bet my boots he never clanked round of nights, like a loose horse, all the while fancying himself sly," said Rob, with a knowing chuckle, as he cocked his head on one side to view the horse-hair bridle-rein which he was braiding while seated on the edge of the porch.
A loud-mouthed clamor from the dogs precluded an answer to this thrust, and as the group on the porch looked toward the gate, Grace, Ralph, and Scott Moreland came into the yard, and they were all soon eagerly discussing the plan of holding a picnic in the Warlow pasture, on the opposite side of the river from the colonel's dwelling.
Before their neighbors left it was decided that the event should take place the last of the following week; but in the excitement of agreeing on a programme, and the wordy debate as to the propriety of including dancing in the list of amusements, all the leisure time of the next two days was consumed; so nothing more was said regarding the great discoveries which the week had revealed.