ssip. His
dignity as a party leader forbade his entering that barbershop where the
walls were papered with copies of "Revolution" and where a picture of Pi
y Margall reigned in place of the King's. How could he justify his
presence in a place he had never visited before? How explain to Cupido
his interest in that woman, without having the whole city know about it
before sundown?

Twice he walked up and down in front of the striped window-panes of the
barbershop, without mustering the courage to raise the latch. Finally he
sauntered off toward the orchards, following the riverbank slowly along,
with his gaze fixed on that blue house, which had never before attracted
his attention, but which now seemed the most beautiful detail in that
ample paradise of orange-trees.

Through the groves he could see the balcony of the house, and on it a
woman unfolding shining gowns of delicate colors. She was shaking the
prima donna's skirts to straighten out the wrinkles and the folds caused
by the packing in the trunks.

It was the Italian maid--that Beppa of the reddish hair whom he had seen
the previous afternoon with her mistress.

He thought the girl was looking at him, and that she even recognized
him through the foliage, despite the distance. He felt a sudden
timorousness, like a child caught redhanded doing something wrong. He
turned in his tracks and strode rapidly off toward the city.

But later, he felt quite comforted. Merely to have approached the Blue
House seemed like progress toward acquaintance with the beautiful
Leonora.

V

All work had stopped on the rich lands of the _ribera_.

The first winter rains were falling over the entire District. Day after
day the gray sky, heavy with clouds, seemed to reach down and touch the
very tops of the trees. The reddish soil of the fields grew dark under
the continuous downpour; the roads, winding deep between the mudwalls
and the fences of the orchards, were changed to rushing streams. The
weeping orange-trees seemed to shrink and cringe under the deluge, as if
in aggrieved protest at the sudden anger of that kindly, friendly land
of sunshine.

The Jucar was rising. The waters, turned to so much liquid clay, lashed
red and slimy against the buttresses of the bridges. People living along
the banks followed the swelling of the river with anxious eyes, studying
the markers placed along the shores to note how the water was coming up.

_"Munta?"_ ... asked the peop