en ovoid for
his breakfast.

"Come on!" she called. "To the river!"

She skipped away toward the unbelievable forest; Dan followed, marveling
that her lithe speed was so easy a match for his stronger muscles. Then
they were laughing in the pool, splashing about until Galatea drew
herself to the bank, glowing and panting. He followed her as she lay
relaxed; strangely, he was neither tired nor breathless, with no sense
of exertion. A question recurred to him, as yet unasked.

"Galatea," said his voice, "Whom will you take as mate?"

Her eyes went serious. "I don't know," she said. "At the proper time he
will come. That is a law."

"And will you be happy?"

"Of course." She seemed troubled. "Isn't everyone happy?"

"Not where I live, Galatea."

"Then that must be a strange place--that ghostly world of yours. A
rather terrible place."

"It is, often enough," Dan agreed. "I wish--" He paused. What did he
wish? Was he not talking to an illusion, a dream, an apparition? He
looked at the girl, at her glistening black hair, her eyes, her soft
white skin, and then, for a tragic moment, he tried to feel the arms of
that drab hotel chair beneath his hands--and failed. He smiled; he
reached out his fingers to touch her bare arm, and for an instant she
looked back at him with startled, sober eyes, and sprang to her feet.

"Come on! I want to show you my country." She set off down the stream,
and Dan rose reluctantly to follow.

What a day that was! They traced the little river from still pool to
singing rapids, and ever about them were the strange twitterings and
pipings that were the voices of the flowers. Every turn brought a new
vista of beauty; every moment brought a new sense of delight. They
talked or were silent; when they were thirsty, the cool river was at
hand; when they were hungry, fruit offered itself. When they were tired,
there was always a deep pool and a mossy bank; and when they were
rested, a new beauty beckoned. The incredible trees towered in
numberless forms of fantasy, but on their own side of the river was
still the flower-starred meadow. Galatea twisted him a bright-blossomed
garland for his head, and thereafter he moved always with a sweet
singing about him. But little by little the red sun slanted toward the
forest, and the hours dripped away. It was Dan who pointed it out, and
reluctantly they turned homeward.

As they returned, Galatea sang a strange song, plaintive and sweet as
the medley