‘Yes, th-there it is,’ she uttered, stumbling a little over the words. It was a beautiful place that she had found, a round cave by a small stream. "What poet was that?" "Stevenson. Section 1. I’m going to that stupid party at the Vorsack’s to get to the bottom of it. There were a few loose, broken fragments of rock to reckon with upon the ledges, and one place where hands did as much work as toes. Some one had once, in his hearing, called him a prig. Upon what this instinct was based she could not say; she was conscious only of its insistence.
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