"'Papa is writing the whole thing--I mean about the currents. He also has in preparation sixteen volumes on the thermosaurus. He said this morning that he was going to ask you to write the story first for some scientific magazine. He is certain that Professor Bruce Stoddard, of Columbia, will write the pamphlets necessary. This will give papa time to attend to the sixteen-volume work, which he expects to finish in three years.' "'Let us first,' said I, laughing, 'catch our thermosaurus.' "'We must not fail,' she said, wistfully. "'We shall not fail,' I said, 'for I promise to sit on this sand-hill as long as I live--until a thermosaurus appears--if that is your wish, Miss Holroyd.' "Our eyes met for an instant. She did not chide me, either, for not looking at the ocean. Her eyes were bluer, anyway. "'I suppose,' she said, bending her head and absently pouring sand between her fingers--'I suppose you think me a blue-stocking, or something odious?' "'Not exactly,' I said. There was an emphasis in my voice that made her color. After a moment she laid the sunshade down, still open. "'May I hold it?' I asked. "She nodded almost imperceptibly. "The ocean had turned a deep marine blue, verging on purple, that heralded a scorching afternoon. The wind died away; the odor of cedar and sweet-bay hung heavy in the air. "In the sand at our feet an iridescent flower-beetle crawled, its metallic green-and-blue wings burning like a spark. Great gnats, with filmy, glittering wings, danced aimlessly above the young golden-rod; burnished crickets, inquisitive, timid, ran from under chips of driftwood, waved their antennae at us, and ran back again. One by one the marbled tiger-beetles tumbled at our feet, dazed from the exertion of an aerial flight, then scrambled and ran a little way, or darted into the wire grass, where great, brilliant spiders eyed them askance from their gossamer hammocks. "Far out at sea the white gulls floated and drifted on the water, or sailed up into the air to flap lazily for a moment and settle back among the waves. Strings of black surf-ducks passed, their strong wings tipping the surface of the water; single wandering coots whirled from the breakers into lonely flight towards the horizon. "We lay and watched the little ring-necks running along the water's edge, now backing away from the incoming tide, now boldly wading after the undertow. The harmony of silence, the deep perfume, the mystery of waiting for that something that all await--what is it? love? death? or only the miracle of another morrow?--troubled me with vague restlessness. As sunlight casts shadows, happiness, too, throws a shadow, an the shadow is sadness.