uild that?" he asked in Portuguese, with a nod
toward the station.

The driver shrugged his shoulders.

"Too much money," he said. "The charter limits them to twenty-five per
cent, profits. They had such a surplus, they told the architect he could
go as high as he liked. He went pretty high." The driver winked at his
own joke, but did not smile.

"I want you by the hour," said Lewis. "Do you know Mrs. Leighton's
house--Street of the Consolation?"

The driver shook his head.

"There's no such house," he said.

"Well, you know the Street of the Consolation? Drive there. Drive
slowly."

On the way Lewis stared, unbelieving, at the things he saw. Gone were
the low, thick-walled buildings that memory had prepared him for; gone
the funny little street-cars drawn by galloping, jack-rabbit mules. In
their stead were high, imposing fronts, with shallow doorways and heavy
American electric trams.

The car shot out upon a mighty viaduct. Lewis leaned out and looked
down. Here was something that he could remember--the valley that split
the city in two, and up and down the sides of which he had often toiled
as a boy. Suddenly they were across, and a monster building blotted all
else from his sight. He looked up at the massive pile. "What is it?" he
asked.

"Theater built by the state," answered the driver, without looking
around. "Cost millions."

"Reis?" asked Lewis, smiling.

"Reis? Bah!" grunted the driver. "Pounds."

The street left the level and started to climb. Lewis looked anxiously
to right and left. He saw a placard that read, "Street of the
Consolation."

"Stop!" he cried.

The driver drew up at the curb.

"What's the matter?" he asked.

"This isn't the Street of the Consolation," said Lewis, dismayed.
"Where's the big cotton-tree and the priest's house, and--and the
bamboos? Where are the bamboos?"

The driver looked around curiously.

"I remember them, the bamboos," he said, nodding. "They're gone."

"Wait here," said Lewis.

He stepped out of the car and started to walk slowly up the hill. He
felt a strange sinking of the heart. In his day there had been no
sidewalk, only a clay path, beaten hard by the feet of three children on
their way to school. In his day the blank row of houses had been a mud
_taipa_ wall, broken just here by the little gate of the priest's house.
In his day there had been that long, high-plumed bank of bamboos,
forever swaying and creaking, behind the screen of which