"We have seen no placards," replied Heywood.
"You will to-morrow," said the owner of the lark, calmly; and squatting,
became engrossed in poking a grasshopper between the brown, varnished
splints of the cage. "Maker of Music, here is your evening rice."
The two companions passed on, with Flounce timidly at heel.
"You see," Heywood broke out. "Warnings everywhere. Now please, won't
you listen to my advice? No telling when the next ship _will_ call, but
when it does--"
"I can't run away." She spoke as one clinging to a former answer. "I
must stand by my dream, such as it used to be--and even such as it is."
He eyed her sadly, shook his head, and said no more. For a moment they
halted, where the path broadened on a market-place, part shade, part
luminous with golden dust. A squad of lank boys, kicking miraculously
with flat upturned soles, kept a wicker ball shining in the air, as true
and lively as a plaything on a fountain-jet. Beyond, their tiny juniors,
girls and boys knee-high, and fat tumbling babies in rainbow finery, all
hand-locked and singing, turned their circle inside out and back again,
in the dizzy graces of the "Water Wheel.
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