great rusting hoops of iron casks, showing that the stillness of the island had once been broken by human revellers.
Yes, even in the clear sunshine it was mysterious and shivery.
Spanish Dick crossed himself hurriedly, calling on the name of another new saint—Sally did not hear—she had long ago lost count.
"Now mebbe, Señorita, you believe my tale of the islan'."
"Of course, Dick," said Sally soothingly over her shoulder, but she whispered to Ben:
"Don't think I'm silly enough to really believe all his stories, but they're always pretty and interesting, and that's the main thing. I'd rather have Spanish Dick with me any day than Aunt Abigail, who's always so keen for the truth, and kills all the joy in life. And, as Cap'n Harve says, we're young only once. Say, Ben, does it ever seem as though we'd be old some day?"
The boy looked at her. It did seem impossible that Age could ever stiffen that lissom figure in blue, and slacken the blood dancing through her veins. Could he really wrinkle that lovely-curved forehead, blanch the red and tan of those rounded cheeks? Could he have the heart to destroy so fair a thing?
There was a little look of impatience about her averted face, as she waited for an answer which, womanlike, she wanted and would have. The boy had no knack of pretty speeches like old Mr. Schauffler, and he had not yet found conversation easy, even with Sally, after that year on the island.
