or surprise.

One morning, however, as his horse was bearing him homeward, he caught
sight of an object moving in the distance. At first he fancied that it
might be one of the men he was wont to meet, but soon he saw that it was
a woman, and as he drew nearer he noticed that she was young, and, in a
moment, that she was fair to see. By her side stood a horse. The saddle
was on the ground, and she was busying herself with the girth. At his
approach she turned her head. Her mouth was like a pomegranate filled
with pearls; her face was without color, innocent of the powdered
egg-shells with which Cuban damsels and dames whiten their cheeks; and
in her eyes was an Orient of dreams. She was lithe and graceful, not
tall; perhaps sixteen. About her waist a crimson sash was wound many
times, her gown was of gray Catalonian calico, and her sandalled feet
were stockingless.

"A Creole," thought Ruis; and raising his right hand to the left side of
his broad-brimmed hat, he made it describe a magnificent parabola
through the air, and as he replaced it, bowed.

"Your servant, Senorita," he said.

"And yours, Don Ruis," she replied.

"You know my name, Senorita! May I ask how you are called?"

"I am called Fausta," she answered; and as she spoke Ruis caught in her
voice an accent unknown to the Madridlenes of his acquaintance, the
accent of the New World, abrupt, disdainful of sibilants, and resolute.
He dismounted at once.

"You have had an accident, Dona Fausta; let me aid you."

But the girth was beyond aid; it was old and had worn itself in twain.
And as he examined it he noticed that the saddle was not of the kind
that women prefer.

"It is needless, Don Ruis. See, it is an easy matter." And with that she
unwound her crimson girdle, and in a moment, with dexterous skill, she
removed the broken girth, replaced the saddle on the horse, and bound it
to him with the sash. "But I thank you," she added, gravely.

Ruis was a little sceptical about the security of this arrangement, and
that scepticism he ventured to express. But the girl was on the horse,
unassisted, before he had finished the sentence.

"Have no fears, Don Ruis. Besides, our house is but a little bird's
flight from here. I could have walked, if need were."

Ruis remounted. "May I not accompany you?" he asked.

"To-morrow," she answered; and for the first time she smiled. For
to-morrow in a Cuban mouth means anything except what it expresses. And
as she