the advice that she should not speak that
word too audibly. "So long as I can whisper it to you, I can be dumb to
the others," she answered, laughing.

But it did not seem to him that she whispered.

The conditions of their friendship at present were remarkable. Garda was
restless unless she could see him every day; if he came on horseback,
she had espied him from afar, and was at the edge of the barren to meet
him; if he sailed down the lagoon in the _Emperadora_, she had
recognized the sail, and was in waiting on the landing. Once there, she
wished to have him all to herself, she grudged every moment he spent
with her mother. This did not prevent him from spending a good many with
the little mistress of East Angels, who now received him with a subdued
resignation which was his delight. This was the man who was about to
dispossess them of their home, the home of her daughter's forefathers;
he meant no harm, he wished for the place, sad misfortune compelled them
to part with it; but naturally, naturally, they could not quite welcome
him with undiluted feelings; naturally their feelings were, must be,
charged with--retrospect. All this, especially the retrospect, was so
reluctantly yet perfectly expressed in her voice and manner that
Winthrop was never tired of admiring it, and her; she was practising the
tone she intended to take about him; he could not deny that it was a
very perfect little minor note. Garda's feelings, however, did not seem
to be diluted with anything; she received him with unmixed joy. As soon
as she could get him to herself she carried him off to the live-oak
avenue, whose high arches and still gray shade had now become her
favorite resort; here she strolled up and down with him and talked of
Lucian, being contented with his mere presence as reply. Often Carlos
Mateo stalked up and down behind them; for he lived in the live-oak
avenue now, Garda declared that he danced by himself there on moonlight
nights. Sometimes Adolfo Torres performed similar sentinel duty. For
Garda had become almost tender in her manner to the young Cuban since
her own interest in Lucian had developed itself. "He feels as I do," she
said to Winthrop, with conviction.

"Never mind _his_ feeling. What is yours for him?" suggested Winthrop,
who was perhaps rather tired of the sentinels, bird and man.

"Pity," answered Garda, promptly. "A nice, kind pity."

"He must be a poor stick to keep coming here for that."

"Oh, he do