We walked away, and found John standing before a little wooden cross that had once marked a grave; there was no trace of a grave left, only green grass growing over the level ground, while lichen and moss had crept over the rough unpainted wood and effaced the old inscription. A single rose-bush grew behind, planted probably a little slip when the memory of the lost one was green and fresh with tears; now, a wild neglected bush, it waved its green branches and shed its roses year by year over the little cross that stood, veiled in moss, alone, where now no grave remained, as though it said, “He is not here: he is risen.” “Look,” said John. “Does it not tell its story? Why should we be saddened while we have what that cross typifies?” [Illustration: THE SUICIDE’S GRAVE.] That evening, happening to take up Sara’s Bible, I found pinned in on the blank leaf these old verses: “There is a calm for those who weep, A rest for weary pilgrims found; They softly lie and sweetly sleep Low in the ground. “The storm that wracks the wintry sky No more disturbs their deep repose Than summer evening’s latest sigh That shuts the rose. “I long to lay this painful head And aching heart beneath the soil, To slumber in that dreamless bed From all my toil.” “Poor child!” I said to myself--“poor child!” “Who do you think is here, Niece Martha?” said Aunt Diana one morning a week later. “Eugenio; he came last night.” “What, the poet?” “Yes; he will stay several days, and I can introduce him to all of you,” said Aunt Di, graciously. “I shall be very glad, not only on my own account, but on Sara’s also, aunt.” “Oh, Eugenio will not feel any interest in a person like Miss St. John, Niece Martha! He belongs to another literary world entirely.” “I know that; but may not Sara attain to that other world in time? I hope much from her.” “Then you will be disappointed, Niece Martha. I am not literary myself, but I have always noticed that those writers whose friends are always ‘hoping much’ never amount to much; it is the writer who takes his friends and the world by surprise who has the genius.” There was a substratum of hard common-sense in Aunt Diana, where my romantic boat often got aground. It was aground now. The next morning Eugenio presented himself without waiting for Aunt Di, and John proposed a walk to the Ponce de Leon Spring in his honor. “It is almost the only spot you have not visited,” he said to us, “and Eugenio must see the sweep of a pine-barren.” “By all means,” replied the poet, “the stretching glades and far savannas, gemmed with the Southern wild flowers.” “You have missed the most beautiful flower of all,” said Iris, “‘the wild sweet princess of far Florida, the yellow jasmine.’”