She had, by the magic of recollection, set the picture of the typhoon between herself and her table companions: the terrible rollers thundering on the white shore, the deafening bellow of the wind, the bending and snapping palms, the thatches of the native huts scattering inland, the blur of sand dust, and those two outcasts defying the elements. Oh! thank you—thank you! I'm so happy!" "Stop, Winny!" he answered, gravely; "I haven't promised yet. It grew clear to her that throughout all her wild raid for independence she had done nothing for anybody, and many people had done things for her.
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