The ponies were ascending the rise in _Rue Victor Hugo_, at the southern end of the city, when Paula discovered the little Catholic church she had imaged for so many weeks, _Notre Dame des Lourdes_, niched away in the crowded streets with a Quebec-like quaintness, and all the holier from its close association with the lowly shops. From these walls had risen the spiritual house of Father Fontanel--her far bright beacon.... The _porteuses_, said to be the lithest, hardiest women of the occident, wore a pitiable look of fatigue, as they came down from the hill-trails, steadying the baskets upon their heads. The pressure of the heat, and the dispiriting atmosphere revealed their effects in the distended eyelids and colorless, twisted lips of the burden-bearers. The ponies at length gained the eminence of the _Morne d'Orange_, and ahead she saw the broad, white plantation-house--_Hotel des Palms_. To the right was the dazzling, turquoise sea where the _Fruitlands_ lay large among the shipping, and near her a private sea-going yacht, nearly as long and angelically white. The broad verandas of the hotel were alluring with palms; the walls and portcullises were cooled with embroidering vines. Gardens flamed with poinsettias and roses, and a shaded grove of mango and India trees at the end of the lawn, was edged with moon flowerets and oleanders. Back of the plantation-house waved the sloping seas of cane; in front, the Caribbean. On the south rose the peaks of Carbet; on the north, the Monster. Paula had hardly left the veranda of magnificent vistas two hours later, when the friendly captain of the _Fruitlands_ approached with an elderly American, of distinguished appearance, whom he presented--Mr. Peter Stock, of Pittsburg. "Since you are to leave us here, Miss Wyndam," the captain added, "I thought you would be glad to know Mr. Stock, who makes an annual cruise around these Islands--and knows them better than any American I've encountered yet. Yonder is his yacht--that clipper-built beauty just a bit in from the liner." "I've already been admiring the yacht," Paula said, "and wondering her name. There's something Venetian about her dazzling whiteness in the soft, deep blue." "I get it exactly, Miss Wyndam--that 'mirage of marble' in the Italian sky.... My craft is the _Saragossa_." His eyelids were tightened against the light, and the voice was sharp and brisk. His face, tropically tanned, contrasted effectively with the close-cropped hair and mustache, lustrous-white as his ship.... Paula having found the captain's courtesy and good sense invariable during the voyage, gladly accepted his friend, who proved most interesting on the matter of Pelée.