54. ON THE BEACH AT DAYTONA. 
and it was a relief to me when finally he took 
off his coat. I left him still panting in his 
fair one’s wake, and hoped it would not turn 
out a case of “love’s labor ’s lost.” Let us 
hope, too, that he was not an invalid. 
While speaking of these my companions 
in idleness, I may as well mention an older 
man, —a rural philosopher, he seemed, — 
whom I met again and again, always in search 
of shells. He was from Indiana, he told me 
with agreeable garrulity. His grandchildren 
would like the shells. He had perhaps made 
a mistake in coming so far south. It was 
pretty warm, he thought, and he feared the 
change would be too great when he went 
home again. If a man’s lungs were bad, he 
ought to go to a warm place, of course. fe 
came for his stomach, which was now pretty 
well, —a capital proof of the superior value 
of fresh air over “ proper” food in dyspeptic 
troubles; for if there is anywhere in the 
world a place in which a delicate stomach 
would fare worse than in a Southern hotel, 
— of the second or third class, — may none 
but my enemies ever find it. Seashell col- 
lecting is not a panacea. For a disease like 
old age, for instance, it might prove to be an 
