ously, even when judged by difficult Tewana standards. Bachelder
painted the small thing, kneeling by her mother's side before the great
gold altar. Her starched skirt, with its band of red velours, stands of
itself leveling her head, so that she looks for all the world like a
serious cherub peering out from a wonderfully embroidered bath-cabinet.
But ah! the serious devotion of the faces! The muse Bachelder had
followed so faithfully was hovering closely when his soul flamed out
upon that canvas. It ranks with his "Enganchada." Either would bring him
fame, yet they rest, face to face, in a dusty locker, awaiting the day
when time or death shall cure the ache that a glimpse of either brings
him.

Two months after that canvas was put away, eighteen counting from the
day of his departure, Bachelder walked, one day, down to the primitive
post-office to see if the mail that was due from the little fishing port
of Salina Cruz contained aught for him. _Waded_ would better describe
his progress, for it was the middle of the rains; water filled the air,
dropping in sheets from a livid sky; the streets were rivers running
full over the cobble curbs. Such white planters as came in occasionally
from the jungle country had been housefast upon their plantations for
this month, and, having the town pretty much to himself, the artist's
thought turned naturally to Paul, who used to bring doubtful mitigation
to his isolation.

He had written the artist twice, but now six months had elapsed since
the last letter. "He'll never come back," the artist muttered. "Poor
Andrea! But it is better--now."

Warm with the pity the thought inspired, he turned the corner into the
street that led to the post-office, and was almost run down by the first
mule of a train that came driving through the rain.

"Bachelder!" the rider cried.

It was surely Paul. Pulling up his beast, he thrust a wet hand from
under his rain poncha, then, turning in his saddle, he spoke to the
woman who rode behind him, "Ethel, this is Mr. Bachelder."

The alternative had happened! As a small hand thrust back the hood of
mackintosh, Bachelder found himself staring at a sweet face, while an
equally sweet greeting was drowned by echoing questions in his mind.
"Good God!" he first thought. "Why did he bring her here?" And upon that
immediately followed, "How ever did he get her?"

An evening spent with the pair at the small Mexican hotel increased his
wonder. Pleasant, pre