“No, I don’t think it is,” replied John; “for as Major Dade and his command were coming up from Key West and Tampa Bay, on the west side of the State, and had just reached the Withlacoochee River when they met their fate, they must have traveled several hundred miles that night, besides swimming the St. Johns twice, to attend the ball and return in time for the battle. However,” he added, seeing the discomfiture of the governess, “I have no doubt they would have been very glad to have attended it had it been possible, and we will let it go as one of those things that ‘might have been,’ as I said the other day to a young lady who, having been quite romantic over the ‘Bravo’s Lane,’ was disgusted to find that it had nothing at all to do with handsome operatic scoundrels in slouch hats and feathers, but was so called after a worthy family here named Bravo.” The Professor now began to rehearse the Dade story; indeed, he gave us an abstract of the whole Florida war. Aunt Diana professed herself much interested, and leaned on the Captain’s arm all the time. Miss Sharp took notes. “Come,” whispered Sara, “let us go back and sit on the sea-wall.” “Why?” I said, for I rather liked watching the Captain’s impalement. “Martha Miles,” demanded Sara, “do you think--do you really think that I am going either to stand or stand through another massacre?” The next morning I was summoned to Aunt Di by a hasty three-cornered note, and found her in a darkened room, with a handkerchief bound around her head. “A headache, Aunt Di?” “Yes, Niece Martha, and worse--a heartache also,” replied a muffled voice. “What is the trouble?” “Adrian Mokes has gone!” “Gone?” “Yes, this morning.” “Off on that hunting expedition?” “No,” replied Aunt Diana, sadly; “he has gone, never to return.” I took a seat by the bedside, for I knew Aunt Di had a story to tell. Now and then she did let out her troubles to me, and then seemed to feel the better for it, and ready to go on for another six months. I was a sort of safety-valve for the high pressure of her many plans. “You know all I have done for Iris,” she began, “the care I have bestowed upon her. Unhappy child! she has thrown aside a princely fortune with that frivolity which she inherits from her father’s family. My dear sister Clementina had no such traits.” “Did she really refuse him, then?” “No; even that comfort was denied to me,” said poor Aunt Di; “it would have been something, at any rate. But no; her conduct has been such that he simply announced to me that he had decided to take a leisurely trip around the world, and afterward he might spend a year or so in England, where the society was suited to his tastes--no shop-keepers, and that sort of thing.”