Beltran rode down to the coast to meet his young uncle and the child. He started early in the morning, riding the black. The groom led the roan for Uncle NoÉ's use, Pablo rode the spotted bull, and those peons who could be spared from the cacao planting walked over the two miles to the boat landing, to be ready to carry the luggage that the strange SeÑor and the little girl would bring.

As Dulgado's fin-keel neared the shore, Beltran could not distinguish the occupants, for the sail hid them from view; but when the boat rounded to alongside the company's landing, and a sprightly old gentleman got out and turned to assist a young girl to climb up to the flooring of the wharf, Beltran discovered that Time had not broken his rule by standing still. On the contrary, he had broken his record by outstripping in the race all nature's winners, for the young uncle had become a thin little old man, and the child a charming girl in a very pronounced stage of young ladyhood.

"I should have known that my cousin could not be a little child," thought Beltran, as he removed his old panama, wishing that he had worn the new one. His dress was careless, if picturesque, and he regretted that he had paid so little attention to it.

Notwithstanding his somewhat rough appearance, Beltran raised the perfumed mass of ruffles and lace in his strong arms. He seated the girl in the chair, fastened firmly to the straw aparejo on the back of the great bull. At Agueda's suggestion, he had provided a safe and comfortable seat for the little one, to whose coming Agueda was looking forward with such unalloyed pleasure.

The girl filled it no more completely than Beltran's vision of her younger self would have done, though her billowy laces overlapped the high arms of her chair. Her feet, scarce larger than those of a child, rested upon the broad, safe footboard which Beltran had swung at the side of the straw saddle. Her delicate face was framed in masses of fair hair—pale hair, with glints here and there like spun glass.

Beltran could hardly see her eyes, so shaded was her face by the broad hat, weighted down by its wealth of vari-colored roses. To many a Northern man, to whom style in a woman is a desideratum, Felisa would have looked like a garden-escape. She had a redundant sort of prettiness, but Beltran was not critical. What if her eyes were small, her nose the veriest tilted tip, her nostrils and mouth large? The fluffy hair overhung the dark eyebrows, the red lips parted to show white little squirrel teeth, the delicate shell-like bloom on cheek and chin was adorable. It brought to Beltran's memory the old farm in Vermont where he had passed some summers as a lad, and the peach trees in the orchard. His environment had not provided him with a strictly critical taste. How fair she was! What a contrast to all the women to whom he had been accustomed! There was nothing like her in that swarthy land of dingy beauties. Her light and airy apparel was a revelation. Unconsciously Beltran compared it with the plain, straight skirts and blouse waists which he saw daily, and to its sudden and undeniable advantage. He was expecting to greet a little child, and all at once there appeared upon his near horizon a goddess full-blown. He had seen nothing in his experience by which he could gauge her. She passed as the purest of coin in this land of debased currency.

Her father, Uncle NoÉ, bestrode the roan which Eduardo Juan had brought over for him. When Don NoÉ was seated, Eduardo Juan gave him the bridle, and took his own place among the carriers of the luggage, which was greater in quantity than Don Beltran had expected. Eduardo Juan disappeared with a sulky scowl in answer to Pablo's contented grin, which said, "I have only to walk home, guide the bull, and see that the SeÑorita does not slip, while you—"

Pablo waited with patient servility, rope in hand, until the SeÑorita was safely seated in her chair. There was a good deal of sprightly conversation among the SeÑores. There was more tightening of girths and questions as to the comfort of his guests by Don Beltran. Then the cavalcade started, Pablo leading the bull, which followed him docilely, with long strides. The animal, ignorant as are the creatures of the four-footed race, with regard to his power over its enemy, man, was obedient to the slightest twitch of the rope, to which his better judgment made him amenable. The long rope was fastened to the ring in his pink and dripping nostrils. He stretched his thick legs in long and steady strides, avoiding knowingly the deeper pools which he had heretofore aided his kind to fashion in the plastic clay of the forest path.

Beltran rode as near his cousin as the path would allow. It was seldom, however, that they could ride abreast.

It was the southern spring, and flowers were beginning to bloom, but Felisa looked in vain for the tropical varieties which one ever associates with that region. The bull almost brushed his great sides against the tree trunks which outlined the sendica. When she was close enough Felisa stretched out her hand and plucked the blackened remains of a flower from the center of a tall plant. It had been scorched and dried by the sun of the summer that was passed. She thrust the withered stems into the bull's coarse hair, turned to Beltran, and laughed.

"If I remain long enough, there will be flowers of all colors, will there not, cousin? Flowers of blue and red and orange."

"You will remain, I hope, long after they have bloomed and died again," answered Beltran, gallantly.

They had not been riding long before Felisa sent forth from her lips an apprehensive scream. Beltran spurred his horse nearer.

"What is it, cousin? Is the silla slipping?"

Felisa looked up from under her cloud of spun silk, and answered:

"No, I am wondering how I am to get round that great tree."

Beltran, to whom the path was as well known as his own veranda at San Isidro, had no cause to turn his eyes from the charming face at his side.

"Oh! the trunk of the old mahogany? That has lain across the path for years. Do not be afraid, little cousin. Roncador has surmounted that difficulty more times than I can remember."

They were now close upon the fallen trunk. Felisa closed her eyes and clutched at the bull's shaggy neck. She screamed faintly.

Pablo turned to the right and pulled at the leading rope, but the bull, with no apparent effort, stubborn only when he knew that he was in the right, turned to the left, and Pablo perforce followed. It was a case of the leader led. When Roncador had reached the point for which he had started, a bare place entirely denuded of branches, he lifted one thick foreleg over, then the other. The hind legs followed as easily, a slight humping of the great flanks, and the tree was left behind. Suddenly Felisa found that they were in the path again.

"Ze bull haave ze raight," commented Pablo. "Ah endeavo' taike de SeÑorit' roun' de tre'. Bull ain' come. He know de bes' nor me." Don Beltran leaped his horse over the tree trunk, and Don NoÉ was taken over pale and trembling, whether or no, the roan following Don Beltran's lead. Beltran smiled openly at Pablo's discomfiture, and somewhat secretly at Uncle NoÉ's fear.

"A good little animal, that roan, Uncle NoÉ. How does he suit you?" Uncle NoÉ looked up and endeavoured to appear at ease, releasing his too tight clutch on the bridle.

"Il est rigolo, bien rigolo!" said Don NoÉ, gaily, between jerks occasioned by the liveliness of the roan. He glanced sidewise at his nephew to see if the Paris argot which he had just imported had had any effect upon him. He owed Beltran something for his superior horsemanship. Beltran never having heard the new word, was, however, not willing to give Don NoÉ a modicum even of triumph. He was bending over, securing a buckle on his bridle. Without raising his figure, he answered, "C'est vrai, mon oncle, c'est tout À fait vrai, il est trÈs, trÈs rigolo."

"TrÈs ha ha!" added Don NoÉ.

"Bien ha ha!" nodded Don Beltran, not to be left behind.

"What wretched French Beltran speaks!" said Don NoÉ to his daughter, later.

Uncle NoÉ belonged to that vast majority, the great army of the unemployed. He loved the gaieties of the world, the enjoyments that cities bring in their train. But sometimes nature calls a halt. Nature had whispered her warning in Don NoÉ's ear, and he at once had thought of the plantation of San Isidro as the place to rest from a too lavish expenditure of various sorts. He had come to this remote place for a purpose, but he yawned as they rode along.

Beltran, proud of the beauties of San Isidro, pointed out its chief features as they proceeded. He turned, and said, still in French, to please Uncle NoÉ, and perhaps to show him that even at San Isidro all were not savages:

"There is much to be proud of, Uncle NoÉ. It is not a small place, when one knows it all."

"C'est vrai," again acquiesced Uncle NoÉ. "A la campagne il y a toujours beaucoup d'espace, beaucoup de tranquillitÉ, beaucoup de verdure, et—" The rest of the sentence was lost on Beltran, but was whispered in the pink ear of Felisa, who laughed merrily.

"At what is my cousin laughing?" asked Beltran, turning, with a pleased smile. Uncle NoÉ did not answer. The words with which he had finished his sentence were, "et beaucoup d'ennui."

"You wanted to come," said Felisa, still laughing.

"Did you ever see such a God-forsaken place?" returned her father. "I had really forgotten how bad it was. Look at those ragged grooms. Imagine them in the Champs ElysÉes!"

"There can be no question of the Champs ElysÉes. How stupid you are, papa."

"And down in this valley! Just think of putting a house—I say, Beltran, who ever thought of putting your house down here in the valley?"

"It was my mother's wish," said Beltran. "I suppose that it was a mistake, but the river was further away in those days. It has changed its course somewhat, and encroached upon the casa, but we have never had any serious trouble from it. I shall build a house on the hill next year. The foundations are already laid." Don Beltran had said this for some years past. "Not that I think that I shall ever need it. When we have floods, the water makes but a shallow lake. It is soon gone."

As they entered the broad camino, Felisa saw a man coming toward them. He was mounted upon a fine stallion; the glossy coat of the animal shone in the sun. The rider wore an apology for a hunting costume, which was old and frayed with use. The gun, slung carelessly across his shoulder, had the appearance of a friend who could be depended upon at short notice, and who had spent a long life in the service of his owner. The stock was indented and scratched, but polished as we polish with loving hands the mahogany table which belonged to our great-grandmother. The barrel shone with the faithfulness of excellent steel whose good qualities have been appreciated and cared for. The man was short and dark. As he passed he removed his old panama with a sweep. Beltran gave him a surly half-nod of recognition, so curt as to awaken surprise in the mind of Felisa. The contrast between the greetings of the two men was so great that her slits of eyes noticed and compared them.

"Who is that man, cousin?"

"Don MatÉo Geredo."

"Why do you not speak to him?"

"I nodded," said Beltran.

"You did not return his salute. I am sure it was a very gracious one, cousin. Why did you not return his—"

"Because he is a brute," said Beltran, shortly.

Felisa had not been oblivious of the glance of admiration observable in the man's eyes as he passed her by.

"Jealous so soon," she thought, with that vanity which is ever the food of small minds. Aloud she said, "He seems to have a pleasant face, cousin."

"So others have thought," said Beltran, with an air which said that the subject was quite worn out, threadbare. Then, changing his tone, "See, there is the casa! Welcome to the plantation, my little cousin."

And thus chatting, they drew up at the steps of San Isidro.

Agueda came joyfully out to meet them. Ah! what was this? Where was the little child of whom she and Beltran had talked so much? Agueda had carefully dusted the little red cart. She had fastened a yellow ribbon in the place from which the tongue had long ago been wrenched by Beltran himself. The cart stood ready in the corner of the veranda, but Agueda did not bring it forward. She caught sight of a glitter of bracelets and rings against a snow-white skin, as Felisa was lifted down from the aparejo in her cousin's arms. Her lips moved unconsciously.

"The diamonds, not the playthings," was her verdict.

As Agueda came forward, the surprise that she felt was shown in her eyes. She bowed gravely to the SeÑorita, who condescended to her graciously.

"Shall I show the SeÑorita to her room?" asked Agueda of Beltran.

With that wonderful adaptability which is the inalienable inheritance of the American woman, Agueda had accepted in a moment the change from the expected child to the present SeÑorita. It is true that Agueda's mother, Nada, had been but a pretty, delicate octoroon, but Agueda's father had been a white gentleman (God save the mark!) from a northern state, and Nada's father a titled gentleman of old Spain. From these proud progenitors and the delicate women of their families had Agueda inherited the natural reserve, the refinement and delicacy which were so obvious to all with whom she came in contact. She inherited them just as certainly as if Nada had been a white woman of the purest descent, just as certainly as if the gentle Nada had been united in wedlock to the despoiler of her love and youth and life, George Waldon, for there ran in Agueda's veins a heritage of good old blood, which had made the daughters of the house of Waldon famous as pure and beautiful types of womanhood.

As Agueda asked her hospitable question, Beltran's square shoulders were turned toward her. He was busying himself with the strap of the aparejo. Agueda, who knew him as her own soul, perceived an embarrassed air, even in the turn of his head.

"If you please," said Beltran, without looking toward her.

The SeÑorita loitered. She asked Don Beltran for her bag. He lifted the small silver-mounted thing from the pommel of his saddle and handed it to Felisa with a smile. He seemed to look down at her indulgently, as if humouring a child. Agueda noticed the glittering monogram as it flashed In the sun. Beltran's hand touched Felisa's. A gentle pink suffused her features. Agueda caught the sudden glance which shot from Beltran's eyes to those of his cousin. A sickening throb pulsed upward in her throat. She shivered as if a cold wind—something that she had seldom felt in that tropic land—had blown across her shoulders.

Suddenly Aneta came into her thoughts, Aneta of El Cuco. Her lips grew white and thin. It is moments like these, with their premonitions, which streak the hair with grey. Agueda did not look at Beltran again. She drew her breath sharply, and said:

"If the SeÑorita permit, I will show her the way."

"In a moment, my good girl," said Felisa, carelessly, and lingered behind, bending above the flower boxes which lined the veranda's edge, flowers which Agueda had planted and tended.

"What a pretty servant you have, cousin," said Felisa.

Beltran started.

"Servant? Oh, you mean Agueda. She—she—is scarcely a servant, Agueda; she keeps my house for me."

Felisa turned and gazed after Agueda. The girl had walked the length of the broad veranda and stood waiting opposite a door, lithe and upright. She looked back, her face grave and serious. She was taller by several inches than Felisa. Her figure, slender as Felisa's own, was clothed in a pale blue cotton gown, fresh and clean, though faded with frequent washings, a spotless collar and cuffs setting off the statuesque throat and the shapely hands.

Felisa tick-tacked down the long veranda, her ruffles and billowy laces bouncing with her important little body. She uttered a subdued scream of surprise as she reached the open doorway and caught sight of the fresh, cool-looking room, with its white furniture and bare floors, its general air of luxurious simplicity. The wooden shutter in the wall opposite the door was flung wide, and one was conscious of a tender tone of yellow green, caused by the rays of sunlight shining through and over the broad banana leaves. Great lilac and yellow pods hung from the shafts of greenery; some of the large oval leaves had fallen upon the veranda. Felisa noted them when she crossed the room to inquire further into her surroundings.

A ragged black was sitting on the veranda edge, swinging his legs over the six feet of space. "Hand me that leaf," said Felisa. The boy arose at once, and picking up the lilac leaf of the banana flower, held it out to her with a bow and the words in Spanish, "As the SeÑorita wishes."

Felisa took the leaf, but threw it down at once. She had expected to find a soft thing which would crumple in her hand. The leaf was hard and tough as leather. She could no more crush or break it with her small fingers than if it had been made of india-rubber, which, but for its color, it strongly resembled.

She turned and looked at Agueda.

"And do you have no curtains at the windows?"

"We have no curtains, and windows we do not have, either," answered Agueda. "The SeÑorita can see that there are wooden shutters at the windows. No one has windows on this side of the island."

The tone was perhaps slightly defiant. It was as if Agueda had said, "What! Finding fault so soon?"

"Eet haave glaass obe' at dÉ ceety; Ah see eet w'en Ah obe' deyah."

Felisa started. The voice came from the corner of the room, which was concealed by the open door. She peered into the shadow, and faced the shriveled bit of brown flesh known as Juana.

Felisa laughed, as much at the words as at the speaker.

"SeÑ'it' t'ink Ah don' haave—yaas-been aat de ceety. Ah been aat ceety. Eet haave, yaas, peepul." The tone implied millions.

Felisa was standing in front of the dressing-table, taking the second long silver pin out of her hat.

"What does she say?" she asked through the hatpin which she held horizontally between her teeth. She removed the open straw, and ran the pins, one after the other, through the crown.

"She says that they have the glass—that is, the windows—at the city."

Still staring at Juana, Felisa seated herself upon the small white bed. Agueda pushed back the rose-coloured netting which hung balloon-like from the ceiling. A freshly knotted ribbon gathered its folds and held them together, thus keeping the interior free from the intrusion of annoying or dangerous insects.

Felisa reached down with one plump hand, and drew the ruffled skirt upward, disclosing a short little foot, which she held out toward Agueda. Agueda did not move. She looked at Felisa with a slight arch of the eyebrows, and moved toward the door.

Juana hobbled up.

"De li'l laidy wan' shoe off? Ole Juana taake. Dat ain' 'Gueda business. Don Be'tra' don' laike haave 'Gueda do de waak."

"And why not, I should like to know?"

Juana chuckled down in the confines of her black and wrinkled throat.

Agueda went out to the veranda. She stood looking over toward the river, her arm round the pilotijo, her head leant against it. Her thoughts were apprehensive ones. She paid no heed to Juana's words.

"She Don Be'tra' li'l laidy, 'Gueda is. She ain' no suvvan,[7] ain' 'Gueda. She 'ousekeep', 'Gueda."

By this time Juana, with stiff and knotted fingers, had unlaced the low shoes. She took the small feet in her hand, and twisted them round, and Felisa with them, to a lying posture upon the low couch.

[7] Servant.