greenheart, bush and fern and suspended
lianas, and tall palms balancing their feathery foliage on slender
stems--all was but a fantastic mist embroidery covering the surface of
that floating cloud on which my feet were set, and which floated with me
near the sun.

The red evening flame had vanished from the summits of the trees, the
sun was setting, the woods in shadow, when I got to the end of my walk.
I did not approach the house on the side of the door, yet by some means
those within became aware of my presence, for out they came in a great
hurry, Rima leading the way, Nuflo behind her, waving his arms and
shouting. But as I drew near, the girl dropped behind and stood
motionless regarding me, her face pallid and showing strong excitement.
I could scarcely remove my eyes from her eloquent countenance: I seemed
to read in it relief and gladness mingled with surprise and something
like vexation. She was piqued perhaps that I had taken her by surprise,
that after much watching for me in the wood I had come through it
undetected when she was indoors.

"Happy the eyes that see you!" shouted the old man, laughing
boisterously.

"Happy are mine that look on Rima again," I answered. "I have been long
absent."

"Long--you may say so," returned Nuflo. "We had given you up. We
said that, alarmed at the thought of the journey to Riolama, you had
abandoned us."

"WE said!" exclaimed Rima, her pallid face suddenly flushing. "I spoke
differently."

"Yes, I know--I know!" he said airily, waving his hand. "You said that
he was in danger, that he was kept against his will from coming. He is
present now--let him speak."

"She was right," I said. "Ah, Nuflo, old man, you have lived long, and
got much experience, but not insight--not that inner vision that sees
further than the eyes."

"No, not that--I know what you mean," he answered. Then, tossing his
hand towards the sky, he added: "The knowledge you speak of comes from
there."

The girl had been listening with keen interest, glancing from one to the
other. "What!" she spoke suddenly, as if unable to keep silence, "do you
think, grandfather, that SHE tells me--when there is danger--when the
rain will cease--when the wind will blow--everything? Do I not ask and
listen, lying awake at night? She is always silent, like the stars."

Then, pointing to me with her finger, she finished:

"HE knows so many things! Who tells them to HIM?"

"But distinguish, Rima. You do not