“Bob, this is my gran’mothah, Mrs. Mendez. She lived in Pensacola befoah the Indians—almost.”
The venerable lady was rising, with a smile on her wrinkled face.
“Please don’t,” urged the boy. “I’m very glad to meet you. I’m a stranger, and the boys have taken me in. It’s beautiful here,” added Bob, glancing at the old-fashioned furniture; “my mother and I have often talked of such a place.”
“You are a strangah to the south, then?” said Mrs. Mendez.
“It’s the first time I ever saw pond lilies in the winter,” answered Bob, looking toward a bowl of white blossoms on the marble-topped table.
“They are magnolia buds,” explained Tom’s grandmother. “I have them for old time’s sake. When I was young, the gulf shore was lined with magnolias. They are gone now,” she added, with a sigh.
Hal Burton, after speaking to Mrs. Mendez, disappeared into a rear room with Tom, where an animated conversation was already to be heard. The words of Tom’s grandmother carried Bob back to vague pages in his history reading.
“You have lived here a long time,” he suggested.
“Since Pensacola was a trading post,” said the old lady. “But, in the early days, there was a cypress stockade about our cabin. Then, the gulf came up to our yard.”