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. "Thank you; but I've a pocket full of water-chestnuts. Lucy followed her. " "Perhaps I read of it somewhere. To find the incentive! But how? Thither and yon the idea roved, seeking the way. " "There isn't an angel in heaven, Ruth, purer or sweeter than you are. You have told me that you cared.
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