She had, by the magic of recollection, set the picture of the typhoon between herself and her table companions: the terrible rollers thundering on the white shore, the deafening bellow of the wind, the bending and snapping palms, the thatches of the native huts scattering inland, the blur of sand dust, and those two outcasts defying the elements. This is grace I am saying! Oh! my dear! all the joy and weeping of life are mixed in me now and all the gratitude. And, now, to find a messenger. And then if some day Capes wanted her—saw fit to alter his views upon friendship. “Dare!” she said. Then perhaps it is Prudence?’ ‘Oh la la! That is not me at all. “My husband knows all. ‘Well, that depends.
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