ing at two extremities of the world.

VII.

IDYLLE.

The sky was blue. A fresh breeze stirred the leaves and shook the
nodding "angels' heads," the aerial plants, and the many other
adornments of the terrace. Maria and Crisostomo were there, alone
together for the first time since his return. They began with charming
futilities, so sweet to those who understand, so meaningless to
others. She is sister to Cain, a little jealous; she says to her lover:
"Did you never forget me among the many beautiful women you have seen?"

He too, he is brother to Cain, a bit subtle.

"Could I ever forget you!" he answered, gazing into the dark
eyes. "Your remembrance made powerless that lotus flower, Europe,
which steeps out of the memory of many of my countrymen the hopes and
wrongs of our land. It seemed as if the spirit, the poetic incarnation
of my country was you, frank and lovely daughter of the Philippines! My
love for you and that for her fused in one."

"I know only your pueblo, Manila and Antipolo," replied the young girl,
radiant; "but I have always thought of you, and though my confessor
commanded it, I was never able to forget you. I used to think over
all our childish plays and quarrels. Do you remember the day you were
really angry? Your mother had taken us to wade in the brook, behind
the reeds. You put a crown of orange flowers on my head and called me
Chloe. But your mother took the flowers and ground them with a stone,
to mix with gogo, for washing our hair. You cried. 'Stupid,' said she,
'you shall see how good your hair smells!' I laughed; at that you
were angry and wouldn't speak to me, while I wanted to cry. On the
way home, when the sun was very hot, I picked some sage leaves for
your head. You smiled your thanks, and we were friends again."

Ibarra opened his pocketbook and took out a paper in which were some
leaves, blackened and dry, but fragrant still.

"Your sage leaves," he replied to her questioning look.

In her turn, she drew out a little white satin purse.

"Hands off!" as he reached out for it, "there's a letter in it!"

"My letter of good-by?"

"Have you written me any others, senor mio?"

"What is in it?"

"Lots of fibs, excuses of a bad debtor," she laughed. "If you're good I
will read it to you, suppressing the gallantries, though, so you won't
suffer too much." And lifting the paper to hide her face, she began:

"'My----' I'll not read what follows, because it's a fib";