“The Fountain of Youth,” declaimed John, ladling out the water. “Who will drink? Centuries ago the Indians of Cuba came to these shores to seek the waters of immortality, and as they never returned, they are supposed to be still here somewhere enjoying a continued cherubic existence. Father Martyn himself affirms in his letter to the Pope that there is a spring here the water thereof being drunk straightway maketh the old young again. Ladies and gentlemen, the original and only Ponce de Leon Spring! Who will drink?” We all drank; and then there was a great silence. “Well,” said the poet, deliberately, looking around from his seat on the curb, “take it altogether, that shanty, those bushes, the pig-sty, the hopeless sandy field, the oozing pool, and this horrible tepid water, drawn from, to say the least, a dubious source--a very dubious source--it is, all in all, _about_ the ugliest place I ever saw!” There was a general shout. “We have suspected it in our hearts all winter,” said the “other young lady;” “but not one of us dared put the thought into words, as it was our only walk.” The poet staid with us a day or two longer, and charmed us all with his delightful, winsome humor. “Do you know, I really love that man,” I announced. “So do I,” said Iris. “That is nothing,” said John; “he is ‘the poet whom poets love,’ you know.” “But we are not poets, Mr. Hoffman.” “We are only plebes, and plebes may very well love what poets love, I think.” “But it does not always follow,” I said. “By no means. In this case, however, it is true. All love Eugenio, both poets and plebes.” “He is the Mendelssohn of poets,” I said; “and, besides that, he is the only person I ever met who reminded me of my idea of Mendelssohn personally--an idea gathered from those charming ‘letters’ and the _Auchester_ book.” The next evening Eugenio and Sara went off for a stroll on the sea-wall; two hours later Sara came back to our room, laid a blank book on the table, and threw herself into a chair. “Tired?” I asked. “Yes.” “It is a lovely evening.” “Yes.” “Did you have a pleasant time?” “Yes.” I knew that blank book well; it contained all Sara’s printed stories and verses; my eyes glanced toward it. “Yes,” said Sara; “there it is! I gave it to him yesterday. I knew he would read it through, and I knew also that I could read his real opinion in those honest eyes of his.” “Well?” “There isn’t a thing in it worth the paper it is written on.” “Oh, Sara!” “And what is more, I have known it myself all along.” “Is it possible he said so?” “He? Never. He said every thing that was generous and kind and cordial and appreciative; and he gave me solid assistance, too, in the way of advice, and suggestive hints worth their weight in gold to an isolated beginner like myself. But--” “But?”