My Friends in their Gardens 
inlaid tray of dark polished wood heaped with oranges and 
bananas and a mighty sweet-scented shaddock. While I 
enjoyed these my host and the Doctor discussed the 
politics of the island and the little local interests, in which 
I did not feel interested, especially as every now and then, 
forgetful of me, they broke into patois. Presently the 
Padre, as Dr. Gordon called him — Father Avelino I learnt 
was his name — said he would show me his church. “ And 
your garden,” interpolated the Doctor. The priest nodded. 
So we sallied forth to the pretty little church whence the 
music was still sounding. Here we found a dark-eyed, 
lovely brown girl practising, on an ancient harmonium 
woefully in want of tuning, the music which on the following 
Sunday was to delight the music-loving parishioners of the 
Padre ! She rose when we appeared, and in response to the 
priest’s greeting she smiled, showing exquisite teeth, and 
answered in that soft-sounding patois which is so delightful 
to hear, even if one does not understand the words 
spoken; indeed, they are not spoken, they are sung. 
The church was neat and clean, but, like all Catholic 
churches, empty of pews; a few chairs only about, several 
altars, the floor well worn before them, especially before the 
Virgin’s. Here two old negresses with straw hats sur- 
mounting white turbans (a sign of mourning) were kneeling, 
a dog lay curled up beside one of them. Ex votos hung 
from the ceiling : a dusty little ship, a turtle-shell, some 
crutches, and in one corner I noticed what appeared a 
wedding-wreath carefully enshrined under glass. 
The priest observed my glance : “ Yes,” he said, “ poor 
girl, I married her, and two months afterwards she died of 
yellow fever. Her husband hung her wreath up there.” 
“ Poor things ! ” I said sympathetically ; “ what became of 
him ? ” “ He married again,” replied the Padre, a trifle 
drily. Then, saying there was nothing more to see in the 
church, led the way out into the blazing sunshine, which 
seemed doubly garish after the subdued semi-darkness of 
the church with its two or three twinkling votive tapers. 
“ Noo yer garden, Padre,” cried Dr. Gordon ; “ noo for 
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