The girl opened the curious receptacle, and breathed a little gasp of delight. Bedded in fern, lay a mass of long sprays aquiver with bells of the purest, most lucent white, each with a great glow of gold at its heart.
“Ah,” observed the young Caracuñan, “I see that you are persona grata with our worthy President, Miss Brewster.”
“President Fortuno?” asked the girl, surprised. “No; not that I’m aware of. Why do you say that?”
“That is his special orchid—almost the official flower. They call it ‘the President’s orchid.’”
“Has he a monopoly of growing them?” asked Miss Brewster.
“No one can grow them. They die when transplanted from their native cliffs. But it’s only the President’s rangers who are daring enough to get them.”
“Are they so inaccessible?”
“Yes. They grow nowhere but on the cliff faces, usually in the wildest part of the mountains. Few people except the hunters and mountaineers know where, and it’s only the most adventurous of them who go after the flowers.”
“Do you suppose this boy got these?” Miss Brewster indicated the shy and dusky messenger.
Raimonda spoke to the boy for a moment.