“Certainly,” she replied, with spirit.

“Is it plentiful enough so that you could spare a little?”

“Are you asking me for a lock of my hair?” she queried, on a note of mirth.  “For a stranger, you go fast.”

“No; oh, no!” he protested.  “Nothing so familiar.  I’m offering you a bribe for conversation at the price of, say, five hairs, if you can sacrifice so many.”

“It sounds delightfully like voodoo,” she observed.  “What must I do with them?”

“First, catch your hair.  Well up toward the head, please.  Now pull it out.  One, two, three—­yank!”

“Ouch!” said the voice above.

“Do it again.  Now have you got two?”

“Yes.”

“Knot them together.”

There was a period of silence.

“It’s very difficult,” complained the girl.

“Because you’re doing it in silence.  There must be sprightly conversation or the charm won’t work.  Talk!”

“What about?”

“Tell me who you thought I was when you said, ‘Boo!’ at me.”

“A goose.”

“A—­a goose!  Why—­what—­”

“Doesn’t one proverbially say ‘Boo!’ to a goose?” she remarked demurely.

“If one has the courage.  Now, I haven’t.  I’m shy.”

“Shy!  You?” Again the delicious trill of her mirth rang in his ears.  “I should imagine that to be the least of your troubles.”

“No!  Truly.”  There was real and anxious earnestness in his assurance.  “It’s because I don’t see you.  If I were face to face with you, I’d stammer and get red and make a regular imbecile of myself.  Another reason why I stick down here and decline to yield to temptation.”

“O wise young man!  Are you young?  Ouch!”

“Reasonably.  Was that the last hair?”

“Positively!  I’m scalped.  You’re a red Indian.”

“Tie it on.  Now, fasten a hairpin on the end and let it down.  All right.  I’ve got it.  Wait!” The fragile line of communication twitched for a moment.  “Haul, now.  Gently!”

Up came the thread, and, as its burden rose over the face of the rock, the girl gave a little cry of delight:—­

“How exquisite!  Orchids, aren’t they?”

“Yes, the golden-brown bee orchid.  Just your coloring.”

“So it is.  How do you know?” she asked, startled.

“From the hair.  And your eyes have gold flashes in the brown when the sun touches them.”

“Your wits are your eyes.  But where do you get such orchids?”

“From my little private garden underneath the rock.”

“Life will be a dull and dreary round unless I see that garden.”

“No!  I say!  Wait!  Really, now, Miss—­er—­” There was panic in the protest.

“Oh, don’t be afraid.  I’m only playing with your fears.  One look at you as you chased your absurd spectacles was enough to satisfy my curiosity.  Go in peace, startled fawn that you are.”