Now I had thrown John Hoffman purposely into my list of Iris’s admirers in order to provoke something like a denial from Sara--these two seemed to feel such a singular kind of interested dislike toward each other; but my little bait caught nothing; Sara remained impassive. Toward sunset the same evening we waited on the Plaza in company with the entire population of the town for the distribution of the one mail, accomplished with some difficulty by the efficient, active, Northern postmaster, in consequence of the windows being darkened with flattened noses, and the doorways blocked up, to say nothing of beatings on the walls, impatient calls through the key-hole, and raids round the back way by the waiting populace. Having wrestled manfully for our letters, we all strolled down Tolomato Street, reading as we went. Iris journeyed languidly through the sand; she had received no letters, and she had Mokes on her hands, Mokes radiant with the rejection of his private three-cornered chowder party, and the smiles she herself had bestowed upon him over on that wicked North Beach. “Oh, for a horse!” she sighed. “Nay, I would even ride in a Florida cart.” [Illustration: A FLORIDA CART.] Aunt Diana was weary, but jubilant; she had the Professor and the Trojan war, and did her duty by them. Miss Sharp ambled along on the other side, and said “Indeed!” at intervals. Sara read her letters with a dreary sort of interest; her letters were always from “Ed.,” she used to say. John and I, strolling in advance, carried on a good, comfortable, political fight over our newspapers. “Another cemetery,” said Sara, as the white crosses and head-stones shone out in the sunset on one side of the road. Mokes, stimulated to unusual conversational efforts by the successes of the day, now brought forward the omnipresent item. “This is--er, I suppose, the old Huguenot burying-ground, a--er--a spot of much interest, I am told.” “Yes,” replied Sara. “This is the very spot, Mr. Mokes.” “Oh no, Miss St. John,” said Aunt Diana, coming to the rescue, “you mistake. This is Tolomato.” “It makes no difference. I am now convinced that they are _all_ Huguenot burying-grounds,” replied Sara, calmly. The little cemetery was crowded with graves, mounds of sand over which the grass would not grow, and heavy coquina tombs whose inscriptions had crumbled away. The names on the low crosses, nearly all Spanish, Minorcan, Corsican, and Greek, bore witness to the foreign ancestry of the majority of the population. We found Alvarez, La Suarez, Leonardi, Capo, Carrarus, Ximanies, Baya, Pomar, Rogero, and Hernandez. Among the Christian names were Bartolo, Raimauld, Rafaelo, Geronimo, Celestino, Dolorez, Dominga, Paula, and Anaclata.