and her death might lie at our door.
So we bestowed upon her the charity she asked for and left her. Prayers
for our happiness went on until we were out of sight, and up to that
point the perverse animal had not moved.

We now turned back on our road, and appeared to have the whole
country-side to ourselves. As we passed the thatched cottages every one
of them was closed and silent. No blue curling smoke ascended from any
of the chimneys.

"Is it always so quiet and deserted?" we asked Francisco, who had
knocked at three or four cottages without success. He was anxious to
show us the interiors, which he said were curious: great chimney-corners
with the chain hanging down to hold the pot-au-feu that was always
going: peat fires that threw their incense upon the air: enormous
Spanish settles on which half a dozen people could sit easily and keep
warm on winter evenings: wonderful old clocks that ticked in the corner.
We saw all this in the fifth cottage. Its inmates had flown, but
forgotten to lock the door. The fire was out, and the great iron pot
swinging from the chain was cold.

"No, senor. I have often been here and never found everybody away like
this. One might fancy them all dead and buried, but they are at the
fair, I suppose. The harvest is all in, fruits are all gathered; there
is nothing left on the trees"--with a melancholy glance at the
orchards--"and for the moment they have nothing to do. So they have gone
in a body to amuse themselves and spend their money."

We got back in time to the monastery, and again the woman opened to us.

"This time he really has gone off for a commission," she laughed, as the
colour mounted to her face at the remembrance of her late transgression.
"I really had to make an excuse before," she added. "It might have been
one of the directors, and I should not like them to think the old man
was getting past his work."

The guardian came up behind us at the moment, a bottle of wine in his
hand for their evening meal.

"Ah, senor," shaking his head mournfully, "it is not equal to yours.
Until the flavour and recollection of yours have passed away, I shall
find this but poor stuff. I must make believe very hard, and fancy
myself living in the days of the old monks, drinking Malvoisie."

We promised to send him a bottle of Laffitte the very next time any one
came over from the hotel, and he declared the anticipation would add
five years to his life. We took a last look at the l