flannel trousers was standing on the broken masonry. Upon the filmy water ducks and black water-fowl bobbed like corks. The bottom was stony. The boatman suddenly backed the boat, and pulled round. He pushed up his sleeve and hung over the bows, reaching into the water. With a quick motion he grabbed something, and scrambled into the boat again. He was holding in the pale-skinned hollow of his palm a little earthenware pot, crusted by the lake deposit.
“What is it?” she said.
“Ollitta of the gods,” he said. “Of the old dead gods. Take it, Señorita.”
“You must let me pay for it,” she said.
“No, Señorita. It is yours,” said the man, with that sensitive, masculine sincerity which comes sometimes so quickly from a native.
It was a little, rough round pot with protuberances.
“Look!” said the man, reaching again for