; hardly a green blade or leaf was
left, and the woebegone looks of some of the people we met wandering
aimlessly about, dazed and almost distracted, were pitiful to behold. I
was not sorry when a shriek from the engine warned us that it was time to
retrace our slippery footsteps.

'Is this a common occurrence?' I could not help asking our friend
Moncrieff.

He took me kindly by the arm as he replied,

'It's a depressing sight to a youngster, I must allow; but we should not
let our thoughts dwell on it. Sometimes the locusts are a terrible plague,
but they manage to get over even that. Come in, and we'll light up the
saloon.'

For hours after this the pattering continued at the closed windows,
showing that the shower of golochs had not yet ceased to fall. But with
lights inside, the carriage looked comfortable and cheerful enough, and
when presently Moncrieff got out Bombazo's guitar and handed it to him,
and that gentleman began to sing, we soon got happy again, and forgot even
the locusts--at least, all but Moncrieff's mother did. She had gone to
sleep in a corner, but sometimes we heard her muttering to herself, in her
dreams, about the 'land o' promise,' 'showers of golochs,' and 'Egyptian
darkness.'

The last thing I remember as I curled up on the floor of the saloon, with
a saddle for a pillow and a rug round me--for the night had grown bitterly
cold--was Bombazo's merry face as he strummed on his sweet guitar and sang
of tresses dark, and love-lit eyes, and sunny Spain. This was a delightful
way of going to sleep; the awakening was not quite so pleasant, however,
for I opened my eyes only to see a dozen of the ugly 'golochs' on my rug,
and others asquat on the saddle, washing their faces as flies do. I got up
and went away to wash mine.

The sun was already high in the heavens, and on opening a window and
looking out, I found we were passing through a woodland country, and that
far away in the west were rugged hills. Surely, then, we were nearing the
end of our journey.

I asked our mentor Moncrieff, and right cheerily he replied,

'Yes, my lad, and we'll soon be in Cordoba now.'

This visit of ours to Cordoba was in reality a little pleasure trip, got
up for the special delectation of our aunt and young Mrs. Moncrieff. It
formed part and parcel of the Scotchman's honeymoon, which, it must be
allowed, was a very chequered one.

If the reader has a map handy he will find the name Villa Maria thereon, a