her
donkeys, she was not to be altogether outdone by the carriage-man, and
insisted upon accompanying us through the town, to carry the basket and
show us the way. The man had disappeared to make ready.

"You have made a mistake, senor, in not taking my donkeys. They are
beautiful creatures; six grey animals, as gentle as sheep. As for the
carriage he praises, I pity you. The road is fearfully rough. When you
reach Poblet, you will have no breath left in your body. All your bones
will be broken."

This sounded alarming; but we discounted something for disappointed
ambition.

"Are these donkeys all your living?" we asked, already feeling a certain
regret that we had employed the man and not the woman.

"Not quite, senor. And then, you know, we live upon very little. You
would be surprised if I told you how few sous a day have sufficed me.
Hitherto I have lived at home with my mother and sisters, who do
washing. We have had that to fall back upon when my donkeys are not
hired. It is lucky for me, since few people come at this time of the
year: very few at any time compared with what you would imagine. The
world doesn't know the beauties of Poblet. It languishes in solitude.
You will see when you get there. My beautiful donkeys!" she continued.
"I love them, and they love me. I have some strange power over all
animals. They seem to know that I wish them well. The very birds perch
upon my shoulders as I go along, if I stop and call to them."

"Where have you learned your charm?" we asked, much interested in the
woman. The loud voice of the station had disappeared, and she now talked
in gentle tones.

"Charm, senor? I never thought of it in that light. If it is a charm, it
was born with me. It is nothing I have learned or tried to cultivate,
for it comes naturally."

"Can you transfer the power to others?" asked H. C. "Really," he added
in an aside, "if this woman were in a higher station of life I could
quite fall in love with her. She must be made up of sympathy and
mesmerism. What a mistake it was to hire that wretched scarecrow of a
driver. Don't you think we might take the woman as a conductor and so
combine the two?"

We ignored the question.

"No, senor," replied the woman of strange gifts; "I cannot give my power
to anyone. But why do you call it a power? It is merely an instinct on
the part of the animals, who know I wish them well and would take them
all to my heart, poor dumb, patient, much-tried crea