ut mercy.
But----"

"Well?" inquired Wayne, astonished.

"But when I'd trudged some five miles up the stifling road I suddenly
emerged into a wonderful mountain meadow. I tell you, George, it looked
fresh and sweet as Heaven after that dusty, parching tramp--a mountain
meadow deep with mint and juicy green grasses, and all cut up by little
rushing streams as cold as ice. There were a lot of girls in pink
sunbonnets picking wild strawberries in the middle distance," he added
thoughtfully. "It was picturesque, wasn't it? Come, now, George,
wouldn't that give you pause?--eight girls in pink pajamas----"

"What!!!"

"And sunbonnets--a sort of dress reform of the poet's."

"Well?" inquired Wayne coldly.

"And there was the 'house beautiful,' mercifully screened by woods,"
continued Briggs. "He calls it the house beautiful, you know."

"Why not the beautiful house?" asked Wayne, still more coldly.

"Oh, he gets everything upside down. Guilford is harmless, you'll see."
He began to whistle Fatinitza softly. There was a silence; then Wayne
said:

"You interrupted your narrative."

"Where was I?"

"In the foreground with eight pink pajamas in the middle distance."

"Oh, yes. So there I was, travel-worn, thirsty, weary, uncertain----"

"Cut it," observed Wayne.

"And a stranger," continued Briggs with dignity, "in a strange
country----"

"Peculiarity of strangers."

Briggs took no notice. "I drank from the cool springs; I lingered to
pluck a delicious berry or two, I bathed my hot face, I----"

"Where," demanded Wayne, "were the eight pink 'uns?"

"Still in the middle distance. Don't interrupt me, George; I'm slowly
drawing closer to them."

"Well, get a move on," retorted Wayne sulkily.

"I'm quite close to them now," explained Briggs; "close enough to remove
my hat and smile and inquire the way to Guilford's. One superb young
creature, with creamy skin and very red lips----"

Wayne halted and set down his suit-case.

"I'm not romancing; you'll see," said Briggs earnestly. "As I was
saying, this young goddess looked at me in the sweetest way and said
that Guilford was her father. And, Wayne, do you know what she did?
She--er--came straight up to me and took hold of my hand, and led me up
the path toward the high-art house, which is built of cobblestones!
Think! Built of cobble----"

"Took you by the hand?" repeated Wayne incredulously.

"Oh, it was all right, George! I found out all about that sor