yl

aria and Crisóstomo were there, alone together for the first time since his return. They began with charming futilities, so sweet to those who understand, so

brother to Cai

hich steeps out of the memory of many of my countrymen the hopes and wrongs of our land. It seemed as if the spirit, the poetic

were really angry? Your mother had taken us to wade in the brook, behind the reeds. You put a crown of orange flowers on my head and called me Chloe. But your mother took the flowers and ground them with a stone, to mix with gogo, for washing our hair. You cried. 'Stupid,

out a paper in which were some leaves,

" he replied to he

drew out a little

ached out for it, "th

ter of

ten me any oth

is i

I will read it to you, suppressing the gallantries, though, so you won

hat, almost a man and I see you in tears?' Upon that I confessed my love for you. He was silent, then placing his hand on my shoulder he said in a voice full of emotion: 'Do you think you alone know how to love; that it costs your father nothing to let you go away from him? It is not long since we lost your

reading; he had become very pal

e ill!" cried Maria

I should be on my way to the pueblo.

im her great, thoughtful eyes, t

keep you no longer. In a few days we shall see each o

ping. "Come, come," said he, to console her; "burn some candles to St. Roch and St. Michael, patron