I don't act crazy, or anything like that, do I ?" "Well," and she smiled quizzically, "of course, I don't know you, so I have nothing to go by.

But I must admit that you say terribly foolish things." Leaving him to think over that, she turned, laughed a good-by, and with the rolling, bow-legged old Lost Wing in her wake, retraced the path to the top of the hill, there to hesitate a moment, wave her hand quickly, and then, as though hurrying away from her action, disappeared.

Barry Houston sat for a long time, visualizing her there on the brow of the hill, her head with its long-visored cap tilted, her hand upraised, her trimness and her beauty silhouetted against the opalesque sky, dreaming,--and with a bit of heartache in it.

For this sort of thing had been his hope in younger, fairer days.

This sort of a being had been his make-believe companion of a Castle in Spain.