visit a nun who was her mother's sister. They had had this intention for years, and had never carried it into effect before, on account of the length and discomfort of the journey. At last they had undertaken it, but unfortunately, it seemed, for it had nearly cost her mother her life. They were pleased with the country, although it seemed rather dull in comparison with their own.

"O Valencia!" I exclaimed with ardor, "I who have visited the most remote regions of the earth and have been on so many diverse shores, have never found anything comparable to that land. There the sun does not rise in blood, as it does in the North, nor scorch as in Andalusia; its light is gently diffused in balmy and tranquil air. The sea does not terrify as it does here; it is bluer and its foam is whiter and lighter. There the birds sing with notes more dulcet and varied; there the breeze caresses at night as by day; there the delicious fruits, that in other parts are in season only in the heat of summer, are enjoyed the year around; there not only the flowers and the herbs have scent, the earth itself exhales a delicate aroma. There life is not sad and weary. Everything is gentle, everything serene and harmonious. And the tranquillity of Nature seems to be reflected in the profound gaze of the Valencian women."

That of Doña Cristina, which was the most gentle and profound I had ever seen, sparkled with a certain mischievous delight.

"Who would think, hearing you talk, that you were a sea-wolf! You speak like a poet. I am almost tempted to believe that you have contributed verses to the periodicals."

"Oh, no!" I exclaimed, laughing. "I am an inoffensive poet. I never write either verses or prose; but you will pardon me for saying that those eyes of yours revived in my memory various beautiful things, all Valencian, and the poetry went to my head."

Doña Cristina appeared to remain in suspense for a moment; she regarded me with more curiosity than gratification, and changing the conversation she asked graciously:

"And the steamer that you are commanding—does she go to America?"

"Only once in a while. Usually we run between Barcelona and Hamburg."

"And your stop here is for several days?"

"Just long enough to repair the damages from a little fire on board, day before yesterday."

On my part, I asked how long they proposed to remained in Gijon.

"We had been thinking of leaving the day after to-morrow and stopping some days in Madrid, where we expected to meet my husband; but now it is necessary to postpone going on account of what has happened. At all events, as soon as my mother has completely recovered herself and the doctor gives permission, we shall start."

I must confess it although it may seem ridiculous—that "my husband" produced a strange sensation of chill and discouragement in me that I could scarcely succeed in hiding. How the devil had it not occurred to me that the young lady might be married? I cannot account for it to this day. And conceding it to be the case, why should the information cause such a bitter emotion when it concerned a person whom I was only just beginning to be acquainted with? I cannot account for that either. I am tempted to believe in the truth of what happens in the old comedies when the gallant is fired with love at first sight of the lady. If I was not on fire, at least I had on board all the materials for the fire.

Nevertheless, reason soon asserted its supremacy. I comprehended the absurdity and the ridiculous character of my sensations, and, calming myself, I asked about her husband with natural and friendly interest. She told me that he was called Emilio Martí, and was one of the partners in the shipping house of Castell and Martí, whose steamers run to Liverpool. Moreover, he had various other lines of business, for he was an active and enterprising man. They had been married only two years.

"And you have no family?"

"Not as yet," she responded, blushing slightly.

She went on to tell me that they were both born in Valencia, where they had always lived; through the winter in the city, Calle del Mar; in the summer time at their villa in Cabañal.

I knew several of the Castell and Martí steamers. I spoke of my satisfaction in placing myself at the service of the wife of one of their owners.

We talked a little longer. I was downcast and felt a desire to go. I managed to take my leave, but not without another dialogue with Doña Amparo with closed doors and an interpreter. On reaching the street my unfounded and even irrational depression was soon dissipated, as I talked with acquaintances and went about my affairs. But all through the day the figure of Doña Cristina was constantly present to my imagination. I adore women who are slender and white, with great black eyes. My friends used to tell me once that in order to suit my taste a woman must be in the last stage of phthisis. They were not far from right. My only love had been a consumptive, and she died when all the preparations were made for our marriage.

The next day I held it to be in the line of my duty to go to the hotel to inquire about the ladies. Doña Cristina asked me in and received me with even greater cordiality, putting her finger to her lips and asking me to speak in whispers like herself, for her mother was sleeping. We seated ourselves on the sofa and chatted in low but lively tones. Doña Amparo was well, and required nothing but attention.

"Moreover (I will tell you in confidence), until they have finished her wig she will not show herself outside her room."

"Ah, the wig! Yes, I remember now."

"Yes, you remember that you tore it off, wicked one!" she replied, laughing.

"Señora, it was impossible to foresee! It is fortunate that I did not tear her head from her body."

We both laughed heartily, forcing ourselves at the same time to laugh noiselessly. A moment later she said, in a way so natural that it pleased me immensely:

"I am hungry, captain, and am going to have some breakfast. Will you not join me?"

I thanked her and excused myself. But as I could not say that I had breakfasted she said that of course I must breakfast with her, and went out to give some orders. I felt delighted, and even if I should say enthusiastic it would not be an untruth. While the maid was getting the table ready in the room where we were, we continued our chat, our mutual confidence steadily growing. All through the breakfast she treated me with a cordiality so frank and hospitable that it quite charmed me. She cut bread and meat for me with her own hands and poured out wine and water. When I wanted a dish or a plate, with provincial simplicity she would jump up and take it from the sideboard without waiting for the maid.

I told her jestingly of the grave occupation in which her cries had surprised me the night of the accident. She laughed heartily and promised to make it up to me when I came to Valencia, by cooking a paella for me by all the rules of the art.

"Not that I have the mad presumption of expecting to make you forget the tripe of Señora Ramona. I shall be satisfied if you eat a couple of platefuls."

"Why a couple? I perceive with sadness that you take me for a gross and material being. I hope to show you, in the course of time, that apart from these hours of tripe and snails, I am a man naturally spiritually-minded, poetic, and even, to some extent, delicate."

She ridiculed this, piling up my plate in most scandalous style, inviting me not to dissimulate my true condition, but to eat as if she were not present.

"Do not think of my being a lady. Fancy yourself breakfasting with a companion—the pilot, for instance."

"I have not sufficient imagination for that. The pilot is squint-eyed and lacks two teeth."

This lively and intimate chat intoxicated me more than the Bordeaux that she poured for me without ceasing. And her