ewhere."

I knew that if he went for wood he must mean buttonwood, because there
was no end of other kinds about; but buttonwood is the only fuel in
Florida--dry mangrove being a close second--that, burning slowly like
charcoal, is both very hot and smokeless, and he was evidently taking no
chances. I knew, too, that he would have to go far toward the coast for
it, since only on tidewater shores may it be found; and with a pleasant
feeling of excitement I wondered if he would also bring back news
of--her; some sign, a thin line of smoke above the trees! It was not the
excitement of battle, or a skirmish; no, it was the approaching reality
of a dream that had gripped me with soft fingers since the moment I
entered this forest. Since my eyes had rested on that pool, my heart had
called afresh for her. The arms of the place were about me.

Softly I arose and went back to it. The pink flamingo was there, but as
I approached, nearer this time, he gave signs of uneasiness and at last
clumsily took wing for some other sanctuary where his solitude might be
untroubled by strange beings.

Standing on the flowery bank, I looked deep into the water. No fish,
nor life of any kind, disturbed its sweet serenity. So like her soul, I
thought, was the soul of this! Yet could her soul be undisturbed? Was it
not, indeed, turbulent with apprehensions? Did it--I asked the question
eagerly--did it sometimes hope that I would come? And something in the
water answered yes. So I picked a blossom of the iris--that had taken
its color from her eyes--and put it carefully away. By the spirit of her
glance, by the unspoken message of this place, I swore--oh, why put down
here all I swore? Men have stood beside solemn pools before, and women,
too. Those who commune in the woods think more sublimely than they
speak, so I can not speak now, in written words, my immeasurable
longing.

Soon Smilax, grinning broadly, emerged from the shadows.

"All right," he said. "You smoke; me cook."

"Did you see anything? How far did you go?" I asked, and he answered in
the curious way he had of dealing with one question at a time.

"No see signs of Efaw Kotee. Long way."

While the combined aroma of bacon and coffee was for the moment throwing
its cloak of materialism about the romance of my forest, I asked again:

"Why are we heading so far inland, when they must be somewhere along the
coast?"

"Best go this way. All right; you smoke."

I was smoking, b