"I thought," said I, "that I heard a young woman complaining last evening that she had not one pin to her name."
"That is very true," said Cynthia, "but the Bo's'n has kindly cut these for me from that young palm up there on the hill. It stands just by the smaller palm that I intend to take to Aunt Mary 'Zekel."
"Oh, you intend to take her a present of a plant, do you?"
"Yes," said Cynthia. "I wonder where I could get a pot."
This conversation shows two things—one being the readiness with which Cynthia fitted her wants to her circumstances, and the other the confidence she had in our soon being able to return to Belleville.
There came a night when we started out to lay snares for the cooing dove. These are a delicacy, and, cooked as Lacelle could cook them, were always a delightful surprise for Cynthia. We left her with Lacelle, Zalee, and the Minion behind, and started, three of us, at about eleven o'clock at night. We struck to the eastward, hitherto a region unexplored by us. We did not fear to lose our way, as the shore line was always a guide, and when once we found the cave we could naturally find the new house. How sweet was the dying trade wind as it fanned our faces, for it was nearly on the turn. Soon the land breeze would arise and blow gently all night from shore out to sea, until the boisterous trade of the morning reasserted its supremacy. We walked a long way without seeing or hearing anything, setting our snares in what seemed the most likely spots for capture, and then going ahead again. After we had been gone about an hour from camp, and as we sat resting under a tree, I thought that I heard a faint wail. I listened, and again it came.
"Do you hear it?" I whispered to the Skipper. "What is that?"
The Skipper put one hand to his ear, as was his fashion, and turned as my finger pointed.
"Yes," he said, "I do hear something."
The Bo's'n seemed much perturbed.