“She has need of friends, poor girl!”
“Why poor?”
“In the first place she is poor, literally.”
“Poverty is comparative. Who so poor as Mokes with his millions?”
“Then she is poor in the loss of her youth; she is no longer young, like Iris.”
“ ‘Oh, saw ye not fair Iris going down into the west’—a minute ago,” said John, glancing after a vanishing blue ribbon. A suspicion, and not for the first time either, crossed my mind. “So it is little Iris, after all,” I thought. “Oh, man, man, how can you be so foolish!” Then aloud, “I must go forward and join the others,” I said, with a tinge of annoyance I could not conceal. John looked at me a moment, and then strode forward. I watched him; he joined Sara. I followed slowly. “There is a second tomb farther down the island,” he was saying as I came up; “it is even more venerable than the first; a square inclosure of coquina, out of which grows an ancient cedar-tree which was probably planted, a mere slip, after the grave was closed. Will you walk that way with me, Miss St. John?” And with bared head he stood waiting for her answer.
ORANGE WALK.
“Thank you,” said Sara, “I do not care to walk farther.”
He bowed and left her.