membered the little games we used to play
together and our little quarrels. When we were children you used to
find in the river the most beautiful shells for our games of siklot
and the finest and most beautifully colored stones for our game of
sinkat. You were always very slow and stupid and lost, but you always
paid the forfeit, which I gave you with the palm of my hand. But I
always tried to strike lightly, for I was sorry for you. You always
cheated, even more than I, in the game of chouka and we generally
quarrelled over it. Do you remember that time when you really became
angry? Then you made me suffer, but when I found that I had no one to
quarrel with, we made peace immediately. We were still children when
we went with your mother one day to bathe in the stream under the
shade of the reeds. Many flowers and plants grew on the bank of the
river, and you used to tell me their strange Latin and Spanish names,
for you were then studying at the Athenaeum. I paid little attention,
but amused myself by chasing butterflies and in trying to catch the
little fish which slipped away from me so easily among the rocks and
weeds of the shore. You suddenly disappeared from sight, but when
you returned you brought a wreath of orange flowers and placed it on
my head. On our way home, as the sun was hot, I collected some sage
leaves from the side of the road for you to put into your hat and
thus prevent headache. Then you laughed, we made up, and came the
remainder of the way home hand in hand."

Ibarra smiled as he listened attentively to every detail of the
story. Opening his pocket book, he took out a paper in which he had
wrapped some withered but fragrant sage leaves. "Your sage leaves,"
said he in answer to her questioning glance. "The only thing you have
ever given me."

She, in turn, drew a little, white satin bag from the bosom of her
dress. "Stop!" she said, tapping his hand with her own. "You must
not touch it; it is a letter of farewell."

"The one that I wrote you before leaving?"

"My dear sir, have you ever written any other?"

"And what did I say then?"

"Many falsehoods; excuses of a bad debtor," replied she, smiling
and showing how agreeable these falsehoods had been to her. "But be
quiet! I will read it to you, but I will omit your polite speeches
out of consideration for your feelings."

Raising the paper to the height of her eyes, in order to conceal her
face, she began. "'My----,' I shall not read y