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saw that the shot had been fired by a war-steamer which was entering the bay. "Ha! the `Firefly;' good!" exclaimed the Governor, with a gratified look; "this will put it all right." He said nothing more, but left the room hastily. It may however be as well to explain that his remark had reference to the mutual affection which he was well aware existed between his daughter and the gallant Lieutenant Lindsay. He had not, indeed, the most remote intention of permitting Maraquita to wed the penniless officer, but he had no objection whatever to their flirting as much as they pleased; and he readily perceived that nothing would be more likely to take the Senhorina's thoughts off her lost maid than the presence of her lover. There was a bower in a secluded corner of the Governor Letotti's garden, a very charming bower indeed, in which Lieutenant Lindsay had been wont at times when duty to the Queen of England permitted, to hold sweet converse with the "queen of his soul." What that converse was it neither becomes us to say nor the reader to inquire. Perhaps it had reference to astronomy, perchance to domestic economy. At all events it was always eminently satisfactory to both parties engaged, save when the Senhorina indulged in a little touch of waywardness, and sent the poor officer back to his ship with a heavy heart, for the express purpose of teaching him the extent of her power and the value of her favour. She overclouded him now and then, just to make him the more ardently long for sunshine, and to convince him that in the highest sense of the word he was a slave! To this bower, then, the Senhorina returned with a sad heart and swollen eyes, to indulge in vain regrets. Her sorrows had overwhelmed her to such an extent that she failed to observe the `Firefly's' salute. It was therefore with a look of genuine surprise and agitation that she suddenly beheld Lieutenant Lindsay, who had availed himself of the first free moment, striding up the little path that led to the bower. "Maraquita!" he exclaimed, looking in amazement at the countenance of his lady-love, which was what Norsemen style "begrutten." But Maraquita was in no mood to be driven out of her humour, even by her lover. "I am miserable," she said with vehemence, clenching one of her little fists as though she meditated an assault on the lieutenant--"utterly, absolutely, inconsolably miserable." If Lindsay had entertained any doubt regard
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