“I don’t think much of your peninsula,” she said poutingly.  “It looks dreadfully flat and uninteresting.  It was a great deal nicer on the other coast, or even at sea.”

“Perhaps you are judging hastily, my dear young friend,” said Senor Perkins, with habitual tolerance.  “I have heard that behind those hills, and hidden from sight in some of the canyons, are perfect little Edens of beauty and fruitfulness.  They are like some ardent natures that cover their approaches with the ashes of their burnt-up fires, but only do it the better to keep intact their glowing, vivifying, central heat.”

“How very poetical, Mr. Perkins!” said Mrs. Markham, with blunt admiration.  “You ought to put that into verse.”

“I have,” returned Senor Perkins modestly.  “They are some reflections on—­I hardly dare call them an apostrophe to—­the crater of Colima.  If you will permit me to read them to you this evening, I shall be charmed.  I hope also to take that opportunity of showing you the verses of a gifted woman, not yet known to fame, Mrs. Euphemia M’Corkle, of Peoria, Illinois.”

Mrs. Markham coughed slightly.  The gifted M’Corkle was already known to her through certain lines quoted by the Senor; and the entire cabin had one evening fled before a larger and more ambitious manuscript of the fair Illinoisian.  Miss Keene, who dreaded the reappearance of this poetical phantom that seemed to haunt the Senor’s fancy, could not, however, forget that she had been touched on that occasion by a kindly moisture of eye and tremulousness of voice in the reader; and, in spite of the hopeless bathos of the composition, she had forgiven him.  Though she did not always understand Senor Perkins, she liked him too well to allow him to become ridiculous to others; and at the present moment she promptly interposed with a charming assumption of coquetry.

“You forget that you promised to let me read the manuscript first, and in private, and that you engaged to give me my revenge at chess this evening.  But do as you like.  You are all fast becoming faithless.  I suppose it is because our holiday is drawing to a close, and we shall soon forget we ever had any, or be ashamed we ever played so long.  Everybody seems to be getting nervous and fidgety and preparing for civilization again.  Mr. Banks, for the last few days, has dressed himself regularly as if he were going down town to his office, and writes letters in the corner of the saloon as if it were a counting-house.  Mr. Crosby and Mr. Winslow do nothing but talk of their prospects, and I believe they are drawing up articles of partnership together.  Here is Mr. Brace frightening me by telling me that my brother will lock me up, to keep the rich miners from laying their bags of gold dust at my feet; and Mrs. Brimmer and Miss Chubb assure me that I haven’t a decent gown to go ashore in.”

“You forget Mr. Hurlstone,” said Brace, with ill-concealed bitterness; “he seems to have time enough on his hands, and I dare say would sympathize with you.  You women like idle men.”