indolent, good people!"

Theodore stood leaning over the little gate, his eyes fixed on the white
sand-hills across the Warra; he was listening to the waves on the outer
beach.

"Theodore, Theodore!" called Miss Elisabetha's voice, "do not stand, but
pace to and fro; and be sure and keep your mouth closed."

Mechanically the boy obeyed, but his thoughts were following the sound
of the water. Following a sound? Yes. Sounds were to him a language, and
he held converse with the surf, the winds, the rustling marsh-grass, and
the sighing pines of the barrens. The tale of the steps completed, he
re-entered the house, and, following the light, went into a long, narrow
room, one of three which, built out behind the main body of the house,
formed with its back-wall a square, surrounding a little courtyard, in
whose center stood the well, a ruined fountain, rose- and myrtle-bushes,
and two ancient fig-trees, dwarfed and gnarled. Miss Elisabetha was
standing at the head of the table; before her was a plate containing
three small slices of dry toast, crisp and brown, and a decanter of
orange-wine, made by her own hands. One slice of the toast was for
herself, two were for the boy, who was still supposed to be growing; a
Northerner would have said that he was over twenty, but Spanish blood
hastens life, and Teodoro in years was actually not yet eighteen. In
mind he was still younger, thanks to Miss Elisabetha's care and strict
control. It had never even occurred to him that he need not so
absolutely obey her; and, to tell the truth, neither had it occurred to
her. Doro ate his simple supper standing--the Daarg family never sat
down gluttonously to supper, but browsed lightly on some delicate
fragments, moving about and chatting meanwhile as though half forgetting
they were eating at all. Then Miss Elisabetha refilled his little glass,
watched him drink the clear amber liquid to the last drop, and bade him
good night in her even voice. He turned at the door and made her a
formal bow, not without grace; she had carefully taught him this
salutation, and required it of him every night.

"I wish you a blessed rest, Theodore," she said, courtesying in reply;
"do not keep the light burning."

Half an hour later, when the ancient maiden glided out of her chamber,
clad in a long frilled wrapper, the three curls in papers on each side
of her head, she saw no gleam from under the low door of the little room
across the hall; she listened,