emerges from a sea of verdure into full view of the sea of azure.
For the time, she was content to rest there in the flow of the
breeze and feast her eyes on that broad, unending blue which
blessedly separated her from the United States of America and
certain perplexities and complications comprised therein.
Presently she would resume the trail and return to the city of
Caracuna, somewhere behind her. That is, she would if she could
find it, which was by no means certain. Not that she greatly
cared. If she were really lost, they'd come out and get her.
Meantime, all she wished was to rest mind and body in the
contemplation of that restful plain of cool sapphire, four
thousand feet below.

But there was a spirit of mischief abroad upon that mountain
slope. It embodied itself in a puff of wind that stirred
gratefully the curls above the girl's brow. Also, it fanned the
neck of the watcher below and cunningly moved his hat from his
side; not more than a few feet, indeed, but still far enough to
transfer it from the shade into the glaring sun and into the view
of the girl above. The owner made no move. If the wind wanted to
blow his new panama into some lower treetop, compelling him to
throw stones, perhaps to its permanent damage, in order to
dislodge it, why, that was just one more cause of offense to pin
to his indictment of irritation against the great island republic
of Caracuna. Such is the temper one gets into after a year in the
tropics.

Like as peas are panama hats to the eyes of the inexpert; far more
like than men who live under them. For the girl, it was a direct
inference that this was a hat which she knew intimately; which,