rose an island, ramparted by rocks, over which the surf could be seen to break with an occasional toss of spray. There was a delicious smell of soft salty freshness, and something besides,—a kind of perfume which Candace could not understand or name.
"Oh, what is it; what can it be?" she said.
"What?"
"The smell. It is like flowers. Oh, there it is again!"
"Mamma makes believe that it is the Spice Islands," answered Gertrude, indifferently, "or else Madeira. You know there is nothing between us and the coast of Africa except islands."
"Really and truly? How wonderful!"
"Well, I don't see how it is so very wonderful. It just happens so. I suppose there are plenty of sea-side places where they can say the same thing."
"Perhaps,—but I never saw any sea-coast but this. It is all new to me."
"I suppose so," responded Gertrude, with a little yawn. She looked to right and to
