y next day, and we had seen less of
him than of the others.

We recalled the circumstance to his memory.

"I recognised you at once," he said, "but thought you had forgotten me.
That man in the sheepskin was my father's head huntsman, a privileged
being who was born and brought up on the estate, gave us our first
lessons in sport and looks upon us as his own children. My father's
place--my own, I fear, before long--is near Toledo. If you ever visit it
again we should be delighted to show you hospitality. We live with my
father when not in Madrid. He is old, in failing health, and could not
bear the idea of my leaving home. On my part I was too glad to remain in
the dear old nest."

"And we see that we have to offer you our congratulations," bowing as in
duty bound to his lovely partner.

De la Torre laughed. "You make me your debtor," he replied. "But however
profound your congratulations, they can never equal those I offer to
myself. I am indeed far more blest than I merit."

"Wait until I show you my true character," laughed madame, "take the
reins of government into my own hands, and leave you with no will of
your own--a henpecked husband. At present I tender you a velvet hand;
presently it may turn into----"

"If it changed into a cloven foot," he interrupted gallantly, "I should
still say it was perfect."

"Ah, you are in paradise," cried the old priest with a sigh; "in
paradise. Try to remain there. Do not summon the angel with the flaming
sword. Be ever true and tender to each other. Talk not of cloven feet.
Let it ever be the velvet hand, the glance of love, the gentle accents
of forbearance. You have every good gift that heaven and earth can give
you. Be worthy of your fate."

We interpreted as gently as possible to H. C. the sad news of the
engagement of the beauty of Gerona, the lovely Senorita de Costello. It
was a great shock. He turned deathly pale and remained for a time
staring at vacancy. Then with a profound sigh he tore up his
half-finished sonnet, "To Eve in Paradise," and began another
self-dedicated, "To Adam in Hades." He keeps it in a sacred drawer,
enshrined in lavender and pot-pourri.

"All this rencontre is very a propos," said the old priest. "Again the
world is smaller than it seems. And we are getting on. Here is Castellon
de la Plana already, with its fine fruit and flower gardens and
picturesque peasants. Alas, we see less costume everywhere than of old.
The taste of the world