d
barred. I had no desire to go abroad. The garden, a large one,
hitherto had formed the limit of my walk; and through this I often
rambled with Zoe and her mother, but oftener with Zoe alone.

There were many objects of interest about the place. It was a ruin; and
the house itself bore evidences of better times. It was a large
building in the Moro-Spanish style, with flat roof (azotea), and notched
parapet running along the front. Here and there the little stone
turrets of this parapet had fallen off, showing evidence of neglect and
decay.

The walls of the garden impinged upon the river, and there ended; for
the bank was steep and vertical, and the deep, still water that ran
under it formed a sufficient protection on that side.

A thick grove of cotton-woods fringed the bank of the river, and under
their shade had been erected a number of seats of japanned mason-work,
in a style peculiar to Spanish countries. There were steps cut in the
face of the bank, overhung with drooping shrubs, and leading to the
water's edge. I had noticed a small skiff moored under the willows,
where these steps went down to the water.

From this point only could you see beyond the limits of the inclosure.
The view was magnificent, and commanded the windings of the Del Norte
for a distance of miles.

Evening after evening we sought the grove of cotton-woods, and, seated
upon one of the benches, together watched the glowing sunset. At this
time of the day we were ever alone, I and my little companion.

One evening, as usual, we sat under the solemn shadow of the grove. We
had brought with us the guitar and bandolin; but, after a few notes had
been struck, the music was forgotten, and the instruments lay upon the
grass at our feet. We loved to listen to the music of our own voices.
We preferred the utterance of our own thoughts to the sentiments of any
song, however sweet. There was music enough around us; the hum of the
wild bee as it bade farewell to the closing corolla; the whoop of the
gruya in the distant sedge; and the soft cooing of the doves as they sat
in pairs upon the adjacent branches, like us whispering their mutual
loves.

Autumn had now painted the woods, and the frondage was of every hue.
The shadows of the tall trees dappled the surface of the water, as the
stream rolled silently on. The sun was far down, and the spire of El
Paso gleamed like a golden star under the parting kiss of his beams.
Our eyes wande