Dawn came--the dawn of a day that I am destined never to forget. Long,
rosy streamers of light broke through the forest, shaking, quivering,
like unstable beams from celestial search-lights. Mist floated upward
from marsh and lake; and through it the spectral palms loomed,
drooping fronds embroidered with dew.

For a while the ringing outburst of bird music dominated all; but it
soon ceased with dropping notes from the crimson cardinals repeated in
lengthening minor intervals; and then the spell of silence returned,
broken only by the faint splash of mullet, mocking the sun with
sinuous, silver flashes.

"Good-morning," said a low voice from the door as I stood encouraging
the camp-fire with splinter wood and dead palmetto fans.

Fresh and sweet from her toilet as a dew-drenched rose, Miss Barrison
stood there sniffing the morning air daintily, thoroughly.

"Too much perfume," she said--"too much like ylang-ylang in a
department-store. Central Park smells sweeter on an April morning."

"Are you criticising the wild jasmine?" I asked.

"I'm criticising an exotic smell. Am I not permitted to comment on the
tropics?"

Fishing out a cedar log from the lumber-stack, I fell to chopping it
vigorously. The axe-strokes made a cheerful racket through the woods.

"Did you hear anything last night after you retired?" I asked.

"Something was at my window--something that thumped softly and seemed
to be feeling all over the glass. To tell you the truth, I was silly
enough to remain dressed all night."