a delicate, bell-like
shiver of fear.

"Nothing," he hastened to assure her. "When I came ashore I thought no
one was living here."

"You're from the white boat that sailed in at sunset?"

"Yes," he replied, "and I am returning immediately."

"It was like magic!" she continued. "Suddenly, without a sound, you
were anchored in the bay." Even this quiet statement bore the shadowy
alarm. John Woolfolk realized that it had not been caused by his
abrupt appearance; the faint accent of dread was fixed in the illusive
form before him.

"I have robbed you too," he continued in a lighter tone. "Your oranges
are in my pocket."

"You won't like them," she returned indirectly; "they've run wild. We
can't sell them."

"They have a distinct flavor of their own," he assured her. "I should
be glad to have some on the _Gar_."

"All you want."

"My man will get them and pay you."

"Please don't----" She stopped abruptly, as if a sudden consideration
had interrupted a liberal courtesy. When she spoke again the
apprehension, Woolfolk thought, had increased to palpable fright. "We
would charge you very little," she said finally. "Nicholas attends to
that."

Silence fell upon them. She stood with her hand resting lightly
against an upright support, coldly revealed by the moon. John
Woolfolk saw that, although slight, her body was delicately full,
and that her shoulders held a droop which somehow resembled the
shadow on her voice. She bore an unmistakable refinement of being,
strange in that locality of meager humanity. Her speech totally lacked
the unintelligible, loose slurring of the natives.

"Won't you sit down," she at last broke the silence. "My father was
here when you came up, but he went in. Strangers disturb him."

Woolfolk moved to the portico, elevated above the ground, where he
found a momentary place. The woman sank back into a low chair. The
stillness gathered about them once more, and he mechanically rolled a
cigarette. Her white dress, although simply and rudely made, gained
distinction from her free, graceful lines; her feet, in black,
heelless slippers, were narrow and sharply cut. He saw that her
countenance bore an even pallor on which her eyes made shadows like
those on marble.

These details, unremarkable in themselves, were charged with a
peculiar intensity. John Woolfolk, who long ago had put such
considerations from his existence, was yet clearly conscious of the
disturbing quality of her perso