g at that tiresome writing."

"Yes, that is it, darling," he said with a sudden change of tone.
"Writing always does give me the blues. I think the man who invented the
art should have been put in a pillory for the rest of his natural life.
Blow your whistle for Sam to bring the horses and we will go for a ride
along the beach."

Evadne lifted the golden whistle which hung at her girdle and blew the
call which the well-trained servant understood. "Fi, dearest!" she said,
"if there were no writing there would be no books, and what would become
of our beautiful evenings then? But I am glad you do not have to write
much, since it tires you so. What has it all been about, dear? Am I
never to know?"

"Some day, perhaps, little Vad. But do not indulge in the besetting sin
of your sex, or, like the mother of the race, you may find your apple
choke you in the chewing."

Evadne shook her finger at him. "Naughty one! As if you were not three
times as curious as I! And when it comes to waiting,--you should have
named me Patience, sir!"

Her father laughed as he kissed her, then he tied on her hat, threw on
his own, and hand-in-hand like two children they ran down the veranda
steps to where the groom stood waiting with the horses.

CHAPTER II.

A month full of happy days had flown by when Evadne and her father
returned one morning from a long tramp in search of specimens. A
delightful afternoon had followed, he in a hammock, she on a low seat
beside him, arranging, classifying and preparing their morning's spoil
for the microscope. Suddenly she turned towards him with a troubled
face.

"Dearest, how pale you look! Are you very tired?"

"It is only the heat," he answered lightly. "We had a pretty stiff walk
this morning, you know."

"And I carried you on and on!" she cried reproachfully. "I was so
anxious to find this particular crab. Isn't he a pretty fellow?" and she
lifted the box that her father might watch the tiny creature's play. "I
shall go at once and make you an orange sherbet."

"Let Dinah do it and you stay here with me."

"No indeed! You know you think no one can make them as well as I do. I
promise you this one shall be superfine."

"As you will, little one,--only don't stay away too long."

He lay very still after she had left him, looking dreamily through the
vines at the silver spray of the fountain. The air had grown
oppressively sultry; no breath of wind stirred the heavily drooping
leaves