her under a cocoanut palm and put my old verbal spell on her again.
“‘Judson,’ says she, ‘when you are talking to me I can hear nothing else—I can see nothing else—there is nothing and nobody else in the world for me.’
“Well, that’s about all of the story. Anabela went back to Oratama in the steamer with me. I never heard what became of Fergus. I never saw him any more. Anabela is now Mrs. Judson Tate. Has my story bored you much?”
“No,” said I. ‘I am always interested in psychologscal studies. A human heart—and especially a woman’s—is a wonderful thing to contemplate.”
“It is,” said Judson Tate. “And so are the trachea and the bronchial tubes of man. And the larynx, too. Did you ever make a study of the windpipe?”
“Never,” said I. “But I have taken much pleasure in your story. May I ask after Mrs. Tate, and inquire of her present health and whereabouts?”
“Oh, sure,” said Judson Tate. ‘‘We are living in Bergen Avenue, Jersey City. The climate down in Oratama did n’t suit Mrs. T. I don’t suppose you ever dissected the arytenoid cartilages of the epiglottis, did you?”
“Why, no,” said I, “I am no surgeon.”
“Pardon me,” said Judson Tate, “but every man should know enough of anatomy and therapeutics to safeguard his own health. A sudden cold may set up capillary bronchitis or inflammation of the pulmonary vesicles, which may result in a serious affection of the vocal organs.”
“Perhaps so,” said I, with some impatience; “but that
