" "Why, that must be about the time of the Great Storm," rejoined Jackson. It is a matter of degree. She took her hat from the peg in the corner and began to put it on. ” “Perhaps you don’t. A little smothered cry broke from her lips—the curtains were thrown aside and a man stepped out. I packed them with the other few things I owned. Strange, I could never learn her history. You must not, however, accompany me, Jack. To be free of outward distraction, he shut his eyes and concentrated upon the scraps she had given him; and shortly, with his eyes still closed, he began to describe Ruth's island: the mountain at one end, with the ever-recurring scarves of mist drifting across the lava-scarred face; the jungle at the foot of it; the dazzling border of white sand; the sprawling store of the trader and the rotting wharf, sundrily patched with drift-wood; the native huts on the sandy floor of the palm groves; the scattered sandalwood and ebony; the screaming parakeets in the plantains; the fishing proas; the mission with its white washed walls and barren frontage; the lagoon, fringed with coco palms, now ruffled emerald, now placid sapphire. She did not wince.
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