d peered up sidewise into each tree, his head now on one
shoulder, now on the other; then he came back, his hands and pockets
filled with oranges, which he offered to all; seating himself on the low
curb of an old well, he began to peel one with the little silver knife
which he kept for the purpose, doing it so deftly that not a drop of the
juice escaped, and looking on calmly meanwhile as the other bird,
Carlos Mateo, went through his dance for the entertainment of the
assembled company. Carlos Mateo was a tall gray crane of aged and severe
aspect; at Garda's call he had come forward with long, dignified steps
and stalked twice round the little open space before the rose-tree,
following her with grave exactitude as she walked before him. She then
called him to a path bordered with low bushes, and here, after a moment,
the company beheld him jumping slowly up and down, aiding himself with
his wings, sometimes rising several feet above the ground, and sometimes
only hopping on his long thin legs; he advanced in this manner down the
path to its end, and then back again, Garda walking in front, and
raising her hand as he rose and fell, as though beating time. Nothing
could have been more comical than the solemnity of the old fellow as he
went through these antics; it was as if a gray-bearded patriarch should
suddenly attempt a hornpipe.

His performance ended, he followed his mistress back to the company, to
receive their congratulations.

"What can we give him?" said Winthrop. "What does he like?"

"He will not take anything except from me," answered Garda; she gathered
a rose, and stood holding it by the stem while Carlos Mateo pecked
gravely at the petals. The sun was sinking, his horizontal rays shone
across her bright hair; she had taken off her hat, which was hanging by
its ribbon from her arm; Winthrop looked at her, at the rose-laden
branches above her head, at the odd figure of the crane by her side, at
the background of the wild old garden behind her. He was thinking that
he would give a good deal for a picture of the scene.

But while he was thinking it, Manuel had spoken it. "Miss Garda, I would
give a year out of my life for a picture of you as you are at this
moment!" he said, ardently. Winthrop turned away.

He went to look at some camellias, whose glossy leaves formed a thicket
at a little distance; on the other side of this thicket he discovered a
crape-myrtle avenue, the delicate trees so choked and h