A DESERTED PLANTATION.
“Nothing that H. H. ever wrote excels her ‘When the tide comes in,’ ” I said. “Do you remember it?
‘When the tide goes out,
The shore looks dark and sad with doubt’—
and that final question,
‘Ah, darling, shall we ever learn
Love’s tidal hours and days?’ ”
“You believe, then, that love has its high and low tides?” said John, lighting a fresh cigar.
“Low tide,” said Sara, half to herself—“low tide always.” She was looking at the bare shore with a sadness that had real roots down somewhere.
“Very low, I suppose,” commented John; “every thing is always very high or very low with you ladies. You are like the man who had a steamer to sell. ‘But is it a low-pressure engine?’ asked a purchaser. ‘Oh yes, very low,’ replied the owner, earnestly.”
Sara flushed, and turned away.