A little trail turned off to a low cabin on the bank of a brook; we saw some flowers, and wandered that way for a moment. It was the lonely little home of a freedman, and two children stood in the doorway staring at us with solemn eyes. We bestowed some pennies, which produced a bob of a courtesy; then some jokes, which brought out the ivories. “What are your names, children?” I asked. “They’s jes Lou-ee-zy and Low-ii-zy,” replied a voice from within-doors. “They’s twins, and I’s took car’ ob dein allays.” It was a crippled old auntie who spoke. She told us her story, with long digressions about “ole massa” and “ole miss.” “After all, I suspect you were more comfortable in the old times, auntie,” I said. “What’s dat to do wid de acquisition ob freedom?” replied the old woman, proudly. “De great ting is dis yer: Lou-ee-zy is free, and Low-ii-zy is free! Bot’ ob dem! Bot’ ob dem, ladies!” “I have never been able to make them confess that they were more comfortable in the old days, no matter how poor and desolate they may be,” I said. “The divine spark in every breast,” replied Eugenio. “But where is the spring, Hoffman? I like your barren; it smacks of the outlaw and bold buccaneer, after the trim wheat fields of the North, and there is a grand sweep of sky overhead. Nevertheless, I own to being thirsty.” “It is not ordinary thirst,” replied John; “it is the old yearning which Ponce de Leon always felt when he had come as far as this.” “He came this way, then, did he?” “Invariably.” “If I had been here at the time I should have said, ‘Ponce’ (of course we should have been intimate enough to call each other by our first names)--‘Ponce, my good friend, have your spring a little nearer while you are magically about it!’” And taking off his straw hat the poet wiped his white forehead, and looked at us with a quizzical expression in his brilliant eyes. “It _is_ warm,” confessed Aunt Diana, who, weary and worried, was toiling along almost in silence. Mokes was nearly out of sight with the “other young lady;” Iris and the Captain were absorbed in that murmured conversation so hopeless to outsiders; and Spartan matron though she was, she had not the courage to climb around after the Professor in cloth boots that drew like a magnet the vicious cacti of the thicket. Miss Sharp had leather boots, and climbed valiantly. At last we came to the place, and filed in through a broken-down fence. We found a deserted house, an overgrown field, a gully, a pool, and an old curb of coquina surrounding the magic spring. “I wonder if any one was ever massacred here?” observed Sara, looking around.