Her hair was soft and fine,
entirely free from the harsh lustre so common to that shade, and
it grew down upon her temples in a way that completed the perfect
oval of her face. His first glimpse had told him she was
ravishingly pretty, but it had failed to show how dainty and small
she was. He saw now that she was considerably below the usual
height, but so perfectly proportioned that one utterly lost
perspective. Even her thick, coarse dress could not conceal the
exquisite mould in which she was cast. But her chief charm lay in
a certain winsome vivacity, a willful waywardness, an ever-
changing expression which showed her keenly alive and
appreciative. Even now pure mischief looked out of her eyes as she
asked:
"Have you rested enough to attack the orchid?"
"Yes." He roused himself from his trance, and with a strangely
leaping heart proceeded carefully to detach the big air plant from
its resting-place. The wonderful flower, nodding to his touch, was
no more perfect than this dryad whom he had surprised.
"Don't break it," she cautioned as he came gingerly down the tree.
"It is what we call 'Espiritu Santa,' the 'Holy Spirit' flower.
See, it is like a white bird."
"First one I've seen," he said, noting how the purity of the bloom
enhanced the olive of her cheek.
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