“Yes, ‘but.’ Through it all, Martha, I could see the truth written in the sky over that old look-out tower; we were on the glacis under that tower all the time, and I never took my eyes off from it. That tower is my fate, I feel sure.” “What do you mean? Your fate?” “I don’t know exactly myself. But, nevertheless, in some way or other that look-out tower is connected with my fate--the fate of poor Sara St. John.” In John Hoffman’s room at the same time another conversation was going on. JOHN. “Has she genius, do you think?” EUGENIO. “Not an iota.” JOHN. “What do you mean, you iron-hearted despot? Has the girl no poetry in her?” [Illustration: UNITED STATES BARRACKS--A DRESS PARADE.] EUGENIO. “Plenty; but not of the kind that can express itself in writing. Sara St. John has poetry, but she ought not to try to write it; she is one of the kind to--” JOHN. “Well, what?” EUGENIO. “Live it.” Eugenio went, leaving real regret behind. The crowd of tourists began to diminish, the season was approaching its end, and Aunt Diana gathered her strength for a final contest. “We are not out of the wilderness yet, it seems,” said Sara to me, in her mocking voice. “Mokes, the Captain, the Professor, and the Knickerbocker, and nothing settled! How is this, my countrymen?” Our last week came, and the Captain and Iris continued their murmured conversations. In vain Aunt Diana, with the vigilance of a Seminole, contested every inch of the ground; the Captain outgeneraled her, and Iris, with her innocent little ways, aided and abetted him. Aunt Di never made open warfare; she believed in strategy; through the whole she never once said, “Iris, you must not,” or wavered for one moment in her charming manner toward the Captain. But the pits she dug for that young man, the barriers she erected, the obstructions she cast in his way, would have astonished even Osceola himself. And all the time she had Mokes to amuse, Mokes the surly, Mokes the wearing, Mokes who was even beginning to talk: openly of going!--yes, absolutely going! One day it came to pass that we all went up to the barracks, to attend a dress parade. The sun was setting, the evening gun sounded across the inlet, the flash of the light-house came back as if in answer, the flag was slowly lowered, and the soldiers paraded in martial array--artillery, “the poetry of the army,” as the romantic young ladies say--“the red-legged branch of the service,” as the soldiers call it. “What a splendid-looking set of officers!” exclaimed Iris, as the tall figures in full uniform stood motionless in the sunset glow. “But who is that other young officer?” “The lieutenant,” said the “other young lady.” “He is very handsome,” said Iris, slowly. “Yes, very. But he is a provoking fellow. Nobody can do any thing with him.”