. She placed chairs, and bustled
about her preparations. In a few moments a peat fire with sticks was
blazing on the hearth, water was put on to boil, and a brown earthenware
coffee-pot was placed on the embers to warm. In her own domain Miguella
became a handy, comely old woman, who moved about without noise and must
have been a good helpmeet to the husband she had lost a quarter of a
century ago. Whilst the water was boiling, she took us into an inner
room and showed us her arrangements for making cheese. It was an
interesting sight, and the old woman went up still further in our
estimation. Everything was spotlessly pure and clean. A grey cat
followed her about like a dog and seemed devoted to her.

"She is getting old like me," said poor Miguella, "but she is a faithful
animal, and never by any chance puts her nose into a pan of milk. I
might leave it all open; nothing would be touched. It is only ewes'
milk, senor. Would you like some in your coffee?"

We thought black coffee more stimulating.

She placed it on the table, hot and fragrant. Miguella had not
overpraised the cunning of her hand. With a slight diffidence meant for
an apology, she took out one of her fresh little cheeses, and with
home-made bread, placed it also on the table. The coffee she served in
white cups of coarse porcelain, which we duly admired, and she brought
forward plates of the same material.

So Miguella, in largeness of heart gave us hospitality, and our simple
collation was so perfect that a king need have wished no better. She had
put on a white apron to serve us becomingly, and from her
chimney-corner, where she added fuel to her fire, surveyed the
appreciation of her labours with pride and pleasure. To us, the
incident--not an every-day one--had borne a certain interest and charm.
We had gone back for a moment to primitive days, "when Adam delved and
Eve span." The best of Miguella's nature had come out simply because we
had been a little kind to her: and we wisely reflected that too often
the greatest enemy to mankind is man.

Our last glimpse of Miguella was of a comely old woman standing in her
doorway to watch us depart. The glow of the setting sun was upon her
face, which was softened and refined by her abundant neat grey hair.
She looked pleased and happy. No doubt she would return to her
chimney-corner and cheese-making, and ponder over the day's small
adventure. Juan would be no loser. Many a centimo would find its way