t out of reach of her pony's hoofs he
pressed his own pony forward, and she pointed out to him what in the
tropic abundance about them she found most beautiful. Sometimes it was
the tumbling waters of a cataract; sometimes, high in the topmost
branches of a ceiba-tree, a gorgeous orchid; sometimes a shaft of
sunshine as rigid as a search-light, piercing the shadow of the jungle.
At first she would turn in the saddle and call to him, but as each day
they grew to know each other better she need only point with her
whip-hand and he would answer, "Yes," and each knew the other
understood.

As a body, the exiles resented Everett. They knew his purpose in
regard to the treaty, and for them he always must be the enemy. Even
though as a man they might like him, they could not forget that his
presence threatened their peace and safety. Chester Ward treated him
with impeccable politeness; but, although his house was the show-place
of Camaguay, he never invited the American minister to cross the
threshold. On account of Monica, Everett regretted this and tried to
keep the relations of her brother and himself outwardly pleasant. But
Ward made it difficult. To no one was his manner effusive, and for
Monica only he seemed to hold any real feeling. The two were alone in
the world; he was her only relative, and to the orphan he had been
father and mother. When she was a child he had bought her toys and
dolls; now, had the sisters permitted, he would have dressed her in
imported frocks, and with jewels killed her loveliness. He seemed to
understand how to spend his money as little as did the gossips of
Camaguay understand from whence it came.

That Monica knew why her brother lived in Camaguay Everett was
uncertain. She did not complain of living there, but she was not at
rest, and constantly she was asking Everett of foreign lands. As
Everett was homesick for them, he was most eloquent.

"I should like to see them for myself," said Monica, "but until my
brother's work here is finished we must wait. And I am young, and
after a few years Europe will be just as old. When my brother leaves
Amapala, he promises to take me wherever I ask to go: to London, to
Paris, to Rome. So I read and read of them; books of history, books
about painting, books about the cathedrals. But the more I read the
more I want to go at once, and that is disloyal."

"Disloyal?" asked Everett.

"To my brother," explained Monica. "He does so much f