much honour I will await them at the Hotel Nacional at seven o'clock. I must now see a friend. Adios!"

While the rest are taking leave Baron de Bach bows to me with his glass of Rhine wine held out to touch mine. With a comparatively serene face he mutters:

"You talk to efery one but me; I vould like to shoot dhem all."

"It mightn't do," I say, "even in Mexico."

He turns away with a frown between his fine, straight brows.

"Madame, vill you and Señorita come to drive? I know dthe place and vill be intairpretair?"

"Yes," says Mrs. Steele. "I intend sending for a carriage; we can get over more ground in that way, and we have so little time."

The Peruvian gives an order to the servant and shortly a vehicle stands at the door. It is a lumbering old open carriage that has evidently been grand in its day—with two white horses that match it in age and decrepitude. In the best of spirits we drive off. The Baron talks Spanish with the driver and answers all our million inquiries.

We learn that the best houses are built round a hollow square called a patio, and the occasional glimpses through the opening of massive doors into these courts reveal a sun-shiny garden of tropical fruits and flowers. Roses everywhere fill the afternoon with fragrance, and the strong aroma of ripening bananas and pines makes the hot air heavy.

"Ees it like vhat you dthought?" asks the Peruvian.

"Much better in some respects," I say, "but the houses look dreadfully dreary outside; they are more like prisons than homes, with their great blank walls and here and there an arched and grated window."

"And there's not a pane of glass in the town," says Mrs. Steele, "lattices inside and wooden shutters without."

"Yes, and I've noticed ever so many pairs of bright eyes peering through those lattices. Poor things!" I say feelingly, "I suppose a Mexican girl of good family must have a very stupid time."

"Not in dthe slightes'," says the Peruvian with decision. "Vomans air much better take care off; dthey air fery happy, I 'sure you," and turning to me—"You vould like it yourself after a leedle."

"Indeed I shouldn't! And neither would the unfortunates who had charge of me."

We pass a Catholic graveyard with high adobe wall and are at the Hospital Municipal, our objective point. A dark young man in ill-fitting clothes receives us and shows us about this primitive refuge. The floors are tiled and all the appointments are rude, but very clean.

Baron de Bach distributes his Mexican dollars so generously the dark young man is quite overcome. He asks some question with solemn black eyes fixed on me. The Peruvian laughs with slight confusion and I catch "Si" in his reply. The dark young man puts another query.

"What's it all about?" says Mrs. Steele; "you promised to interpret."

"Oh, yes, if I must. Dthis zhentleman ask if dthis young lady ees my wife and if she like roses."

"Oh, let us see the roses," says Mrs. Steele, calmly ignoring the wretch's prevarication, for I know to the first question he said "Yes." With my nose in the air I follow the rest into the rose garden of the hospital, where all is so lovely I quite forget I am offended.

Oh, the rose trees and the wilderness of bloom!

The dark young man gathers for Mrs. Steele and the Baron de Bach for me.

"LOOK, SENORITA!"

"You ask me vonce vhat kind was a Castilian rose. Look, Señorita, so weich so süss, so fein, wie die Castilien Frauen," and he hands me a pale pink rose, loose-petalled, fragile, and very fragrant. With great bunches in our hands we leave the hospital garden, and I notice with irritation that the dark young man in bidding me good-bye, long life and happiness, salutes me as "Señora."

It is six o'clock and we drive towards the town. The narrow streets are full of idlers in every attitude of picturesque languor. Mrs. Steele sympathises deeply with the lean and patient little burros with wooden racks on their backs holding on either side a clay jar filled with water.

"Efery yar ees two media, about twenty-five cent your money. Vater ees more dearer dthan vine," explains our interpreter.

We find all the rest of the company assembled at the Hotel Nacional in the gallery on the ground floor that looks into the patio. Mrs. Steele and I are shown by a native servant (half Indian, I should think) into a room across the court, where we make a primitive toilet. This is the very best hotel of Mazatlan, but the guest chamber is guiltless of carpet or rug; the one high window, grated and latticed, looks into the narrow street. A bed heavily draped with coarse curtains stands in one corner, and under a cracked glass giving forth a freckled and bilious reflection stands the deal toilet-table. A tin pan does duty for bowl, a delightful old clay carafe holds the water, and an abalone shell contains a bit of yellow laundry soap.

With these aids to beauty we reappear refreshed and ready for the dinner that is spread in the half-open gallery. Only a trellis thickly mantled with grape vines is between us and the garden; indeed, over the top of this screen I can see, as I sit at the table, the vine-leaves rise and fall in the soft air, and the more ambitious tendrils daintily pencilled against the red sky of that lovely Mexican evening. An odd dinner it is; but Señor Noma makes a most courteous host, and the dishes are certainly rare and interesting—generally peppery beyond words to describe and most of them liberally seasoned with garlic. But the luscious fruits, the "vino blanco," and champagne cool our smarting palates and reconcile us to our gastronomic ventures. At the beginning of the meal, out of the meditative mood that has overtaken him, Baron de Bach rouses himself to enter into earnest conversation with the little Mexican boy who is helping to serve us. I notice the boy's snapping black eyes and fine oval face, and how he nods with an added gleam as he says "Si! si!" to every remark of the Baron's, and finally disappears. In a few minutes he returns and presents a large bunch of lovely orchids to Mrs. Steele. Then he exchanges a few words with the Baron and is off again like a shot.

"Yust to show you dthat flowers can grow here out of a hospital garden," explains the Baron, bowing across the table to my friend and adding under his breath:

"I haf send for odthers for you, Señorita."

Towards the end of this curious dinner the Mexican boy returns with a great round native basket piled high with roses and strange rare flowers I have never seen before—such wonderful fantastic conceits in bloom that I can only look and clasp my hands about the dainty store. Mrs. Steele recalls Hernando Cortes' wonder and delight at the flowery surprises of the new world three hundred years ago.

"Ah, yes," says Señor Noma, who has caught the remark, "you see we haf something worth your notice in this dark corner of America. If you stay here longer you will find we haf many things you would like."

Baron de Bach is strangely quiet all the evening, but the unfailing good temper of our host and the gaiety of the