“If you are frightened, Miss Sharp, pray change seats with me,” I heard Aunt Diana say. The Captain was not there, but Mokes was; and John Hoffman was lying at ease on the little deck at the stern, watching the flying clouds. The boat courtesied herself away over the blue, and, left alone, I wandered off down the sea-wall, finding at the south end the United States Barracks, a large building with broad piazzas overlooking the water, and a little green parade-ground in front, like an oasis in the omnipresent sand. At the north end of the wall floated the flag of old San Marco, here at the south end floated the flag of the barracks, and the two marked the limits of the Ancient City. The post is called St. Francis, as the foundations of the building formed part of the old Franciscan monastery which was erected here more than two centuries ago. Turning, I came to a narrow street where stood a monument to the Confederate dead--a broken shaft carved in coquina. Little St. Augustine had its forty-four names inscribed here, and while I was reading them over a shadow fell on the tablet, and, turning, I saw an old negro, who, leaning on a cane, had paused behind me. “Good afternoon, uncle,” I said. “Did you know the soldiers whose names are here?” “Yas, I knowed ’em; my ole woman took car’ ob some ob dem when dey was babies.” “The war made great changes for your people, uncle.” “Yas, we’s free now. I tank de Lord dat day de news come dat my chil’en’s free.” [Illustration: AFRICA.] “But you yourself, uncle? It did not make so much difference to you?” I said, noticing the age and infirmity of the old man. But straightening his bent body, and raising his whitened head with a proud happiness in his old eyes, he answered, “I breave anoder breff ebber sense, mistis, dat I do.” Farther on I found a woman sitting at the door of a little shop with sweets to sell, and purchased some for the sake of making a mental sketch of her picturesque head with its white turban. “I have not the exact change, but will send it to you to-morrow,” I said, intending to fee the Sabre to execute the errand. “Who shall I say it is?” “Why, Viny, course. Every body knows Aunt Viny.” “I want to go over to Africa, Aunt Viny. Can you tell me the way?” “Certain. You goes--You know St. Francis Street?” “No.” “De Bravo’s Lane, den?” “No.” “Well, nebber mind. You goes ’long down Bridge Street--you knows dat?” “No.” “I declar’ for’t, mistis, I don’t jes know how to tell _you_, but whenebber _I_ wants to go dar, I jes _goes_.” I laughed, and so did Aunt Viny. A colored girl came round the corner with a pail on her head. “Dar’s Victoria; she’ll show yar,” said Aunt Viny. “Your daughter?” “Yas. Victoria Linkum is her name, mistis. You see, she was jes borned when Linkum died, and so I named her from him,” said the woman, with simple earnestness. The funny little Victoria showed me the way across a bridge over the Maria Sanchez Creek.