JOHN AND IRIS.
NEW LIGHT-HOUSE, ANASTASIA ISLAND.
“Iris may still be Mrs. Mokes.”
“Oh no!”
“Do not be too sure, Martha. In my opinion—nay, experience—a young girl is far more apt to be dazzled by wealth than an older woman. The older woman knows how little it has to do with happiness, after all; the young girl has not yet learned that.”
The Osceola carried us northward again, and then around into a creek where was the landing-place of Anastasia Island.
“This Anastasia was a saint,” I said, as we strolled up the path leading to the new light-house. “She belonged to the times of Diocletian, and we know where to find her, which is more than I can say of Maria Sanchez over in the village.”
“And who is this Maria Sanchez?” inquired Aunt Diana, in her affable, conversational tone. Aunt Di always asked little questions of this kind, not because she cared to know, but because she esteemed it a duty to keep the conversation flowing.