“But does any one know the story of the place?” repeated Iris, who preferred any diversion to Mokes’s solo. “Why insist upon digging it up?” said Sara. “Let it rest in the purple haze of the past. The place has not been occupied for a hundred years. We see this beautiful orange walk; yonder is a solitary tomb. Can we not fill out these shadowy borders without the aid of prosaic detail?” The Professor, who had been digging up vicious-looking roots, now joined us. “When I was here some years ago,” he began, in his loud, distinct tones, “I made a point of investigating--” “Let _us_ make a point of leaving,” murmured Sara, taking me off down the walk. John Hoffman followed, so did Iris, and consequently Mokes, likewise Aunt Di. Miss Sharp longed to stay, but did not quite dare; so she compromised by walking on, as far as her feet were concerned, all the rest of her, however, looking back with rapt attention. “Yes? How interesting! Pray go on.” The Professor went on; we heard his voice in the rear. “It was called El Verjel (the garden), and its orange grove was the glory of St. Augustine--” “Hurry!” whispered Sara, “or we shall hear the whole.” We hastened out into the sunny meadows, catching “killed by lightning”--“1790”--“he sent his oranges to London;” then the voice died away in the distance. John Hoffman kept with us, and we wandered on, looking off over the Matanzas, sweeping on to the south, dotted with sails, and the black dug-outs of the Minorcan fishermen anchored along shore. The tide was out, and the coast-line bare and desolate. [Illustration: A DESERTED PLANTATION.] “Nothing that H. H. ever wrote excels her ‘When the tide comes in,’” I said. “Do you remember it? ‘When the tide goes out, The shore looks dark and sad with doubt’-- and that final question, ‘Ah, darling, shall we ever learn Love’s tidal hours and days?’” “You believe, then, that love has its high and low tides?” said John, lighting a fresh cigar. “Low tide,” said Sara, half to herself--“low tide always.” She was looking at the bare shore with a sadness that had real roots down somewhere. “_Very_ low, I suppose,” commented John; “every thing is always very high or very low with you ladies. You are like the man who had a steamer to sell. ‘But is it a low-pressure engine?’ asked a purchaser. ‘Oh yes, _very_ low,’ replied the owner, earnestly.” Sara flushed, and turned away. “Do you do it on purpose, I wonder?” I thought, with some indignation, as I glanced at John’s imperturbable face. I was very tender always with Sara’s sudden little sadnesses. I think there is no one who comprehends a girl passing through the shadow-land of doubt and vague questioning that lies beyond youth so well as the old maid who has made the journey herself, and knows of a surety that there is sunshine beyond. Obeying a sudden impulse, I asked the question aloud. Sara was in front of us, out of hearing.