Larry and the Frog-Men Long had been her tale in the telling, and too long, perhaps, have I been in the repeating--but not every day are the mists rolled away to reveal undreamed secrets of earth-youth.

And I have set it down here, adding nothing, taking nothing from it; translating liberally, it is true, but constantly striving, while putting it into idea-forms and phraseology to be readily understood by my readers, to keep accurately to the spirit.

And this, I must repeat, I have done throughout my narrative, wherever it has been necessary to record conversation with the Murians.
Rising, I found I was painfully stiff--as muscle-bound as though I had actually trudged many miles.

Larry, imitating me, gave an involuntary groan.
"Faith, _mavourneen_," he said to Lakla, relapsing unconsciously into English, "your roads would never wear out shoe-leather, but they've got their kick, just the same!" She understood our plight, if not his words; gave a soft little cry of mingled pity and self-reproach; forced us back upon the cushions.
"Oh, but I'm sorry!" mourned Lakla, leaning over us.

"I had forgotten--for those new to it the way is a weary one, indeed--" She ran to the doorway, whistled a clear high note down the passage.
Through the hangings came two of the frog-men.