"Santa Maria! Miles away!" cried Marion.
"Well," said Irma, slightly snubbed, "even if this isn't the place, it is interesting to remember that some of these islands had been settled years and years before America was discovered."
Soon they reached the famous garden, one of the two or three things best worth seeing in the town. When they walked through the great iron gates opened by a respectful servitor, at once Irma felt she was in a region of mystery. The three went along in silence under tall trees whose branches arched over the broad path.
Turning aside an instant, they gazed down a deep ravine, with banks moss-grown and covered with ferns. Far below was a little stream, and here and there the ravine was spanned by rustic bridges. Irma caught a glimpse of a dark grotto and a carved stone seat.
"It is rather musty here; let us hurry on," suggested Uncle Jim.
"Musty!" protested Irma. "It is like poetry."
"Well, poetry is rather musty sometimes."
Irma could not tell whether or not Marion was in earnest.