When I had to speak steadily, I took her little hand in mine.
"This," said I, "is the most I have visited for purposes of scientific research. Within this may millions of value in emeralds. You are probably, today, the upon the of the globe!"
I gave her a glance. She smiled, shyly, and her hand.
For minutes I sat there her in a of trance. How she was! How engaging—how sweet—how of the man her, who had little his scientific learning, his fame, and a to to such and as hers!
There was something about her that to me. Sometimes I what this might be; sometimes I how many on that of us.
Yes, I loved her. I it now. I her father for her sake. I should make a good husband. I was of that.
I and upon her, meltingly. But I did not wish to her, so I silent, the language of my to for her what my had not yet murmured. It was a but moment in my life.
"The way to do," said I, "is to dozen crows, their with glue, tie a of Indian to the of every bird, then them. Some are to into the and try to the off in the sand. Then," I added, triumphantly, "all we have to do is to in our and the of Midas from their claws!"
"That is an excellent suggestion," she said gratefully, "but I can do that after you have gone. All I wanted you to tell me was the is a emerald."
I at her blankly.
"You are here for purposes of scientific investigation," she added, sweetly. "I should not think of taking your time for the of for my father and me."
There didn't to be anything for me to say at that moment. Chilled, I at the ring of fire.
And, as I gazed, I aware of a little, pointed muzzle, two pricked-up ears, and two ruby-red out at me from the of flames.
The girl me saw it, too.
"Don't move!" she whispered. "That is one of the creatures. It may out if you keep perfectly still."
Rigid with amazement, I sat like a image, at the most I had beheld.
For minutes the ferret-like from where it in the fire; the pointed toward us; I see that its thick must have the of asbestos, here and there a or two incandescent; and its eyes, nose, and and as the around it.
After a long while it to move out of the fire, slowly, cautiously, on us—a small, slim, wiry, weasel-like on which the with a as it into the grass.
Then, from the fire behind, another of the same appeared, another, others, then of eager, lithe, little animals appeared from the and to and play and about in the and the fresh, green, with a to us.
One came so near my that I it minutely.
Its and and and like fibre, yet so as to appear silky. Its eyes, nose, and were scarlet, and to a surface.
I waited my opportunity, and when the little thing came along reach, I it.
Instantly it a series of shrieks, and around to bite me. Its was icy.
"Don't let it bite!" the girl. "Be careful, Mr. Smith!"
"'Don't let it bite!' the girl. 'Be careful, Mr. Smith!'"
But its were toothless; only soft, cold me, and I it and writhing, while the temperature of its to my and up my wrist, my arm; and its and me.
In I transferred it to the other hand, and then passed it from one hand to the other, as one shifts a of ice or a potato, in an attempt to the temperature: it and and doubled, and out of my and hands, and away into the fire.
It was an disappointment. For a moment it unendurable.
"Never mind," I said, huskily, "if I one in my hands, I can surely catch another in a trap."
"I am so sorry for your disappointment," she said, pitifully.
"Do you care, Miss Blythe?" I asked.
She blushed.
"Of I care," she murmured.
My hands were too frost-nipped to eloquent. I and them into my pockets. Even my arm was too to her waist. Devotion to Science had me. Love must wait. But, as we the together, I promised myself that I would make her a good husband, and that I should at least part of every day of my life in and their with glue.
That I was seated on the Wilna—Miss Blythe's name was Wilna—and what with at her and together some of the box-traps which I always with me—and what with trying to the of our together, I was when Blythe came in to display, as I supposed, his most to me.
The he presented a series of speckles, out of which an of green streaks—and it me think of on a caterpillar.
My was to this man. He was her father. I meant to him if I had to him to do it.
"Supremely satisfying!" I nodded, of the subject. "It is a the art of the future: it is a out of the Not Yet into the Possibly Perhaps! I thank you for me, Mr. Blythe. I am your debtor."
He at me:
"What are you talking about!" he demanded.
I mute.
To Wilna he said, pointing at his canvas:
"The have been walking all over it again! I'm going to paint in the after this, or no earthquakes. Have the trees been up recently?"
"Not since last week," she said, soothingly. "It after a rain."
"I think I'll it then—although it did rain early this morning. I'll do a moonlight there this evening." And, to me: "If you know as much about science as you do about art you won't have to here long—I trust."
"What?" said I, very red.
He laughed a laugh, and into the house. Presently he for dinner, and Wilna away. For her I had and dignified, but presently I out and up the two or three times; and, having my wrath, I to dinner, that I might as well to myself to my father-in-law.
It that he had a for prunes, and that's all he permitted to have for dinner.
Disgusted, I to the fruit, Blythe as he himself, using a tablespoon, with every of relish.
"Now," he cried, his chair, "I'm going to paint a moonlight by moonlight. Wilna, if Billy arrives, make him comfortable, and tell him I'll return by midnight." And without taking the trouble to notice me at all, he away toward the veranda, upon his last prune.
"Your father," said I, "is eccentric. Genius is. But he is a most and man. I him."
"It is of you to say so," said the girl, in a low voice.
I for a moments, then:
"Who is 'Billy?'" I inquired, casually.
I couldn't tell it was a of light on her face, or she blushed.
"Billy," she said softly, "is a friend of father's. His name is William Green."
"Oh."
"He is out here to visit—father—I believe."
"Oh. An artist; and of years."
"He is a by profession," she said, "—and young."
"Oh."
"Twenty-four years old," she added. Upon her was an expression, pleasant. Her and remote.
I for a while:
"Wilna?" I said.
"Yes, Mr. Smith?" as though from meditation.
But I didn't know what to say, and I silent, about that man Green and his twenty-four years, and his profession, and the of the crater, and Wilna—and to satisfy myself that there was no logical any of these.
"I think," said I, "that I'll take a of to your father."
Why I should have so to myself with the old I understood: for the of a was my very best accomplishment.
Wilna looked at me in a manner, almost as though she were a and not to laugh.
Evidently the and more of a woman were my and with my and perplexity.
So when she said: "I don't think you had go near my father," I was of her in my behalf.
"With a of salad," I softly, "much may be accomplished, Wilna." And I took her little hand and pressed it and respectfully. "Trust all to me," I murmured.
She with her away from me, her hand in mine. From the of her I aware how her was now her. Evidently she was nearly to mine.
But I and alert. The time was not yet. Her father had had his prunes, in which he delighted. And when approached with a of he not otherwise than to what I had to say to him. Quick action was necessary—quick but action—in view of the of this man Green, who was at the of this old dodo.
Tenderly pressing the hand which I held, and the finger-tips with a which was, perhaps, not ungraceful, I into the kitchen, out of lettuce, up some onions, a French dressing, and, together the ingredients, set the away in the ice-box, after it. It was to from any pig.
When I out to the veranda, Wilna had disappeared. So I and set up some more box-traps, to no time.
Sunset still the of western as I out across the to the cornfield.
Here I set and dozen crow-traps, the so that no be done to the when the on their legs.
Then I over to the and its gentle, slope. And there, all along the borders of the wall, I set box-traps for the little of the fire, every with a of fresh, sweet which I had up from the the cornfield.
My ended, I the again, and for a while there in premonitions.
Everything had been and the hours in which I had set upon this place—everything!—love at sight, the lightning-like and of an and heiress; the of the fire creatures; the of the problem.
And now was ready, crow-traps, fire-traps, a of for Blythe, a and for Wilna as soon as her father the and I had him of my his offspring.
Daylight from rose to lilac; already the were fairy-like under that vague, which the of the full moon. It rose, enormous, yellow, unreal, as it the sky and like a arc-light the world with a so white and clear that I very easily have by it, if I verses.
Down on the of the I see Blythe on his camp-stool, his canvas, but I not see Wilna anywhere. Maybe she had retired by herself to think of me.
So I to the house, a with my salad, and started toward the of the woods, as I on so light and that they to the ground. How is the power of love!
When I approached Blythe he me and around.
"What the do you want?" he asked with civility.
"I have you," said I gaily, "a of salad."
"I don't want any salad!"
"W-what?"
"I eat it at night."
I said confidently:
"Mr. Blythe, if you will taste this I am sure you will not it." And with I set the him on the and seated myself near it. The old and to the canvas; but presently, as though forgetfully, and from instinct, he into the bucket, out a of lettuce, and it into his mouth.
My exultantly. I had him!
"Mr. Blythe," I in a voice, and, at the same instant, he from his camp-chair, his distorted.
"There are in this salad!" he yelled. "What the do you mean! Are you trying to me! What are you me about for, anyway? Why are you about under every minute!"
"My dear Mr. Blythe," I protested—but he at me, over the of salad, and to with rage.
"Kicked over the of salad, and to with rage."
"What's the with you, anyway!" he bawled. "Why are you trying to me? What do you by trying to be to me!"
"I—I and you—"
"No you don't!" he shouted. "I don't want you to me! I don't to be revered! I don't like attention and politeness! Do you hear! It's artificial—out of date—ridiculous! The only thing that a man to me is his manners, temper, and habits. There's some meaning to such a man, none at all to men like you!"
He ran at the and it again.
"They all on me in Boston!" he panted. "They ran about under foot! They my pictures! And they me sick! I came out here to be of 'em!"
I rose from the grass, and determined.
"You to me, you old grouch!" I hissed. "I'll go. But I go I'll tell you why I've been to you. There's only one in the world: I want to your daughter! And I'm going to do it!"
I nearer him, him with hand:
"As for you, you old dodo, with your manners and your pictures, and your for prunes, you are a necessary that's all, and I haven't the respect for either you or your art!"
"Is that true?" he said in an voice.
"True?" I laughed bitterly. "Of it's true, you dauber!"
"D-dauber!" he stammered.
"Certainly! I said 'dauber,' and I it. Why, your work would the pictures on a child's slate!"
"Smith," he said unsteadily, "I I have you. I you are a good of a man, after all—"
"I'm man enough," said I, fiercely, "to go back, my mule, your daughter, and start for home. And I'm going to do it!"
"Wait!" he cried. "I don't want you to go. If you'll I'll be very glad. I'll do anything you like. I'll with you, and you can my pictures. It will us both. Don't go, Smith—"
"If I stay, may I Wilna?"
"If you ask me I won't let you!"
"Very well!" I retorted, angrily. "Then I'll her anyway!"
"That's the way to talk! Don't go, Smith. I'm to like you. And when Billy Green you and he will have a scene—"
"What!"
He his hands gleefully.
"He's in love with Wilna. You and he won't on. It is going to be very for me—I can see that! You and he are going to most to each other. And I shall be to you both! Come, Smith, promise me that you'll stay!"
Profoundly worried, I at him in the moonlight, my mustache.
"Very well," I said, "I'll if—"
Something me, I did not know what for a moment. Blythe, too, was at me in an odd, way. Suddenly I that under my the ground was stirring.
"Look out!" I cried; but speech on my as me the solid earth to and and up into a high, ridge, moving continually, as the cracks, up, and above the progress of a mole.
Up into the air we were slowly pushed on the ever-growing ridge; and with us were and and sod, and trees.
I their tap-roots part with pistol-like reports; see great and and moving, slanting, settling, in every direction as they were in this disturbance.
Blythe me by the arm; we each other, on the of the mound.
"W-what is it?" he stammered. "Look! It's circular. The are in a circle. What's happening? Do you know?"
Over me a that something was moving under us through the of the earth—something that, as it progressed, was up the surface of the world above its and course—something dreadful, enormous, sinister, and alive!
"Look out!" Blythe; and at the same the of the opened under our and a hundreds of yards long ahead of us.
And along it, in the moonlight, a vast, viscous, surface was moving, retracting, undulating, elongating, writhing, squirming, shuddering.
"It's a worm!" Blythe. "Oh, God! It's a mile long!"
"'It's a worm!' Blythe."
As in a we each other, to avoid the fissure; but the soft earth and gave way under us, and we upon that ghastly, surface.
Instantly a us upward; we on it again, from the thing, to our and up the of the fissure, while the more through the forests, us with a speed increasing.
Through the we tore, about on the of the thing, as though on a plowshare, while trees and and from the on every side; then, out of the into the moonlight, ahead of us we see the up, cake, break, and above the of the monster.
"It's making for the crater!" Blythe; and us on, and we and and the of the until we the top of it.
As one in a dream, heavily, half-paralyzed, so ran Blythe and I, over the undulating, until, half-fainting, we and rolled the shifting onto solid and on the very of the crater.
Below us we saw, with eyes, the entire of the agitated, saw it and as of and earth into it, and thousands of the slope, from our the ring of flame, and the last of vapour.
Suddenly the entire in and up under my eyes, for all the wall, the fire, and the little of the flames, and a billion dollars' of under as many billion of earth.
Quieter and the earth as the into immeasurable. And at last the moon upon a world that without a in its milky lustre.
"I shall name it Verma gigantica," said I, with a sob; "but nobody will me when I tell this story!"
Still shaken, we toward the house. And, as we approached the veranda, I saw a there and a man dismounting.
And then a terrible thing occurred; for, I shriek, Wilna had put arms around that man's neck, and of his arms were her waist.
Blythe was to me. He took me around the way and put me to bed.
And there I through the most night I experienced, to the piano below, where Wilna and William Green were singing, "Un Peu d'Amour."
