ORCHIDS do not, by preference, grow upon a cactus plant. Little though she recked of botany, Miss Brewster was aware of this fundamental truth. Neither do they, without extraneous impulsion, go hurtling through the air along deserted mountain-sides, to find a resting-place far below; another natural-history fact which the young lady appreciated without being obliged to consult the literature of the subject. Therefore, when, from the top of the appointed rock, she observed a carefully composed bunch of mauve Cattleyas describe a parabola and finally join two previous clusters upon the spines of a prickly-pear patch, she divined some energizing force back of the phenomenon. That energizing force she surmised was temper. “Fie!” said she severely. “Beetle gentlemen should control their little feelings. Naughty, naughty!” From below rose a fervid and startled exclamation. “Naughtier, naughtier!” deprecated the visitor. “Are these the cold and measured terms of science?” “You haven’t lived up to your bet,” complained the censured one. “Indeed I have! I always play fair, and pay fair. Here I am, as per contract.” “Nearly half an hour late.” “Not at all. Four-thirty was the time.” “And now it is three minutes to five.” “Making twenty-seven minutes that I’ve been sitting here waiting for a welcome.” “Waiting? Oh, Miss Brewster—” “I’m not Miss Brewster. I’m a voice in the wilderness.” “Then, Voice, you haven’t been there more than one minute. A voice isn’t a voice until it makes a noise like a voice. Q.E.D.” “There is something in that argument,” she admitted. “But why didn’t you come up and look for me?” “Does one look for a sound?” “Please don’t be so logical. It tires my poor little brain. You might at least have called.” “That would have been like holding you up for payment of the bet, wouldn’t it? I was waiting for you to speak.” “Not good form in Caracuña. The señor should always speak first.” “You began the other time,” he pointed out. “So I did, but that was under a misapprehension. I hadn’t learned the customs of the country then. By the way, is it a local custom for hermits of science to climb breakneck precipices for golden-hearted orchids to send to casual acquaintances?” “Is that what you are?” he queried in a slightly depressed tone. “What on earth else could I be?” she returned, amused. “Of course. But we all like to pretend that our fairy tales are permanent, don’t we?” “I can readily picture you chasing beetles, but I can’t see you chasing fairies at all,” she asserted positively. “Nor can I. If you chase them, they vanish. Every one knows that.” “Anyway, your orchids were fit for a fairy queen. I haven’t thanked you for them yet.” “Indeed you have. Much more than they deserve. By coming here to-day.”