f-smile to Torres as he borrowed his
phrase.

"You did not like it? You thought it childish?" said Garda. She drew the
stalk quickly from its place. She was now speaking English, and Torres
watched to see the fate of his gift; she had taken the flowers with the
intention of throwing them away, but noticing that the Cuban's eyes were
fixed upon them, she slipped the end of the stem under her belt, letting
the long brilliant spray hang down over her dark skirt.

"I am now more honored than ever," said Winthrop.

"But it is Mr. Torres whom I am honoring this time," answered the girl.

Torres, hearing his name in her English sentence, drew the heels of his
polished boots together with a little click, and made another low bow.

The rest of the party now came up, and soon after, the visitors took
leave; Winthrop rode back across the pine-barrens to Gracias. Dr. Kirby
bore him company on his stout black horse Osceola, glad indeed to be
there and off his own feet; on the way he related a large portion of
that history of the Spaniards in Florida which Garda, their descendant,
had interrupted at the mill.

As they left East Angels, and rode out on the barren, this descendant
was being addressed impressively by her mother. "That, Garda, is my idea
of a cultivated gentleman: to have had such wide opportunities, and to
have improved them; to be so agreeable, and yet so kind; so quiet, and
yet so evidently a man of distinction, of mark--it's a rare
combination."

"Very," replied Garda, giving the crane her gloves to carry in his beak.

They were still standing in the lower doorway; Mrs. Thorne surveyed her
daughter for a moment, one of her states of uncertainty seemed to have
seized her. "I hope you appreciate that Mr. Winthrop is not another
Manuel or Torres," she said at last, in her most amiable tone.

"Perfectly, mamma; I could never make such a mistake as that. Mr.
Winthrop inspires respect."

"He does--he does," said Mrs. Thorne, with conviction.

"I respect him already as a father," continued Garda. "Manuel and
Ernesto also respect him as a father. Come, Carlos, my angel, let us go
down to the landing, and see if we can call Manuel back."

CHAPTER III.

Gracias-a-Dios was a little town lying half asleep on the southern coast
of the United States, under a sky of almost changeless blue.

Of almost changeless blue. Americans have long been, in a literary way,
the vicarious victims, to a certain extent, of