Oh, the delight of the senses that first night under Florida skies! I stepped out on the balcony into a moonlight such as I had never before known--and the delicious odours, the caressing air, the outline of those unfamiliar trees in the garden below! I heard the fountain, and smelled the sulphur water as it trickled in the moonlight, and, gazing on the dreaming view, was stirred by the soft, sensuous beauty of the night. Something seemed to awaken in me: I was happy and sad: lonely, yet wanting to be alone. It was as though something very beautiful ought to happen; my heart seemed ready to burst with either joy or sorrow, I hardly knew which. I suppose all the loveliness made me homesick without knowing it; and that I also vaguely felt that here, in all this sensuous beauty, life--my life--lacked something, perhaps always would lack something--Juliet was on her balcony in the moonlight, but only the roses were climbing to whisper to her; only the fountain trickled to her half-formed thoughts. At the hotel where we took our meals we made acquaintances, but found none especially congenial. I could not sit on the veranda and play cards, as most of the women did. There were no young people, no children, and few books were accessible. On rainy days the time dragged. Several little excursions on the St. John’s River, and down Rice Creek, varied the monotony of visiting old plantations and orange groves, and strolling along the quiet streets basking in the sunshine. The indolent life was a welcome change after my arduous year at the hospital, and for a time I was content to drift and dream. I enjoyed most the evenings when, in the hotel parlour, my patient would play on the piano. Her touch had a peculiar charm. She could bring the men in from the office; the darkies from the kitchen would peer in at the doors; people loitering on the street would come up on the veranda; even the women would stop their stupid cards and furtively wipe away the tears, as the frail little figure sat at the piano, and the thin white fingers twinkled over the keys, playing “Ben Bolt,” “By Bendermeer’s Stream,” “The Harp that Once Through Tara’s Halls,” and a host of other ballads and dance-tunes. Sometimes she would sing a ballad, and the pathos of her voice made one’s heart ache. She always left the piano with liquid eyes and a delicate flush on her cheek that made me apprehensive. Music stirred her so much that she permitted herself to indulge in it but infrequently. How she loved life and youth, and what a young heart she had to the last!