translation as follows: "You are still
young; it would be better, perhaps, to remain at home until you are
somewhat older." "Somewhat" was Mr. Moore's favorite word; everything
with him was somewhat so; nothing (save wickedness) entirely so. In this
way he escaped rashness. Certainly Reginald Kirby had put no "somewhat"
of any sort in his answer to the Cuban. But Mr. Moore was of the opinion
that he intended to do so (being prevented, probably, by that same
rashness), and so he gave his guest the benefit of the doubt.

Torres reflected upon the translation; he had accepted a chair this
time, but sat hat in hand, his heels drawn together as before. "With
your favor, sir," he said at last, raising his eyes and making the
clergyman a little bow, "this seems to me hardly an acceptance?"

"Hardly, I think," replied the clergyman, with moderation.

"At the same time, it is not a rejection. As I understand it, I am
advised--for the present at least--simply to wait?" And he looked at the
clergyman inquiringly.

"Exactly--very simple--to wait," assented Mr. Moore.

The Cuban rose; and made ceremonious acknowledgments.

"You return?" asked the clergyman, affably.

"I return."

"There is, no doubt, much to interest you on the plantation," remarked
Mr. Moore, in a general way.

"What there is could be put upon the point of the finest lance known to
history, and balanced there," replied Torres, with a dull glance of his
dull dark eyes.

"I fear that young man has a somewhat gloomy disposition," thought the
clergyman, when left alone.

Torres went down the lagoon again; and began to wait.

CHAPTER XV.

"Man alive! of all the outlandish!" This was the unspoken phrase in
Minerva Poindexter's mind as she watched a little scene which was going
on near by. "I suppose it's peekin', but I don't care. What in the name
of all _creation_ are they at?"

Behind one of the old houses of Gracias there was a broad open space
which had once been a field. On the far edge of this sunny waste stood
some negro cabins, each brilliant with whitewash, and possessing a
shallow little garden of its own, gay with flowers; in almost every
case, above the low roof rose the clear green of a clump of bananas. A
path bordered by high bushes led from the town to this little
settlement, and here it was that Celestine, herself invisible, had
stopped to look through a rift in the foliage. A negro woman was coming
down the dusty track which pa