Up came the thread, and, as its burden rose over the face of the rock, the girl gave a little cry of delight:—
“How exquisite! Orchids, aren’t they?”
“Yes, the golden-brown bee orchid. Just your coloring.”
“So it is. How do you know?” she asked, startled.
“From the hair. And your eyes have gold flashes in the brown when the sun touches them.”
“Your wits are your eyes. But where do you get such orchids?”
“From my little private garden underneath the rock.”
“Life will be a dull and dreary round unless I see that garden.”
“No! I say! Wait! Really, now, Miss—er—” There was panic in the protest.
“Oh, don’t be afraid. I’m only playing with your fears. One look at you as you chased your absurd spectacles was enough to satisfy my curiosity. Go in peace, startled fawn that you are.”