lanche," says Mrs. Steele the next morning as she brushes out the lovely waves of prematurely grey hair, "what are you going to do about the Baron?"

"Do?" I repeat innocently. "What's the matter with him?"

"Now, Blanche, you said if I would promise not to interfere you would be frank. I'm not sure I am wise to adhere to my side of the bargain under any circumstances. I never thought you the kind of a girl to go on letting a man fall more and more in love knowing all the while you would never be able to give him more than a passing interest."

"How do you know that? Perhaps I'm disguising all sorts of fierce and fiery feelings under my cool exterior?"

"No, my dear, you can't impose on an old friend so far as that. You are a queer girl and not always easy to understand, but you care less for the Baron de Bach than I do, and you know it. Now, what makes you act so?" and she arraigns me with uplifted brush.

"Dear Mrs. Steele, I'm a student of human nature in a small way. If I know anything about our Peruvian friend he will fall out of 'love,' as you are pleased to call his chronic state of sentiment, as readily as he fell in, and no bones broke, either. He would have forgotten all about me before this and gone over to pretty Miss Rogers and the study of photography except that I've been a bit obdurate—unusually so, he is naÏve enough to assure me, and his vanity is piqued."

Mrs. Steele lays down her brush and begins to coil up the long, soft hair.

"My dear, you are very old for your years. When I was twenty I would have made a hero out of that man instead of calmly picking out his foibles—girls are not what they used to be."

I retire to my stateroom after breakfast to read. The Baron retaliates by becoming aware of pretty Miss Rogers' existence. Pretty Miss Rogers' mamma is conspicuously polite to him, and pretty Miss Rogers' self offers to play the piano to his violin. It is Mrs. Steele who brings me these tidings and assures me that Miss Rogers plays well, and, as for the Baron de Bach, he is a master! I resolutely read my book till luncheon time and, going up on deck afterwards, I am surprised that the ever-watchful Baron has not hurried to meet me. He seems utterly indifferent to the fact of my presence and leans beside Miss Rogers at the ship's rail talking contentedly.

"H'm!" I muse, "music hath charms! At all events he must not be allowed to suppose that I notice, much less care for, his defection," and I turn to talk animatedly with Captain Ball about Mazatlan. His wife comes up with an aggressive-looking Californian who has asked several persons to present him, but I've successfully evaded his acquaintance till now.

"It's not often we have the pleasure of a word with you," says Mrs. Ball, after introducing her companion. "Baron de Bach is such a monopolist. Just see how he is engrossing Miss Rogers now. What a pretty girl she is, and how well she plays. Did you hear her and the Baron this morning?"

"No," I say calmly, "I was so unfortunate as to miss that. Baron de Bach has contracted a benevolent habit of reading French aloud to Mrs. Steele and me every morning, and one doesn't always yearn to listen to French with a dreadful German accent, so I excused myself and passed the forenoon in my room."

"You must be glad to hear the Baron has found some other congenial occupation." Mrs. Ball laughs, and exchanges a look with the Californian.

"It may have its advantages," I reply, determined not to be ruffled.

At that moment the Peruvian comes up to ask me if I will sit in a group to be photographed.

"Oh, please don't ask me," I say pleasantly; "I hate sitting for my picture."

"But I beg you. Madame Steele haf promise to help us. She ask me to zay she will spik vidth you."

With a show of indolence I accompany him to where Mrs. Steele's chair is stretched out under the awning, for the day is very sultry.

"I haf play vidth Mees Rogair," he whispers on the way, "and haf make her promise to get out her camarah—I vould haf your photographie."

Mrs. Steele groups the party, and we succeed in getting several unusually grotesque and dreadful pictures. If anything could cure one person's sentimental regard for another, it would be the sight of just such amateur caricatures as were turned out that afternoon. Mrs. Steele looks a little like her handsome self in the proofs shown us next day. Miss Rogers develops an unflattering likeness to a dutch doll—I am as black as a Congo negro and wear the scowl of a brigand, while Baron de Bach, after carefully brushing his hair and twirling his moustache to the proper curve, comes out with a white blot instead of a face; a suggestion of one eye peers shyly forth from the moon-like mask, and the Peruvian is greatly disgusted. I shall ever regard an amateur's camera as a great moral engine for the extirpation of personal vanity.

On the evening of the eighth day we steam into the far-famed Bay of Acapulco.

It is sunset, and from the Captain's bridge we watch the headlands taking bolder shape against the brilliant sky, the lighthouse flushing pink in the reflection. We see the long, low red-roofed Lazaretto set peacefully among the hills, and away to the right the straggling town of Acapulco, fringed with cocoa palms and guarded on the other side by an old and primitive fort.

A wonderful land-locked harbour is Acapulco, and the bold hills circling it seemed that night to shut it out from all the rest of the world.

"That town is more like old Spain than Spain herself," I hear a gentleman from Madrid say to Mrs. Steele. "It has remained since Cortes' day, with no other land communication than an occasional mule train affords; and the manners and customs and speech of Cortes' followers are preserved there to-day."

"Can't we go ashore?" I ask the Captain, pleadingly.

"Well, you can't stay long," is the gruff answer. "We must get away early to-morrow morning."

But Baron de Bach, overhearing, says:

"I tell Madame Steele ve can haf supper in dthe town. Vill you come, SeÑorita?"

"Thanks, with pleasure, if Mrs. Steele agrees," and my spirits rise high at the prospect.

The great red sun rests one splendid moment on the wooded heights and dyes the waters of Acapulco's bay in dusky carmine, and it throws into bolder silhouette the black hull of the disabled man-of-war Alaska, anchored after many storms in this fair and quiet haven. The health commissioners are long in coming, and it is late before Mrs. Steele, the Baron and I are pushed off from the San Miguel and headed towards the town. It is dark when we reach the wharf, and Baron de Bach gives us each an arm, saying:

"It ees not safe dthat you leaf me; stay close beside."

"Yes," observes Mrs. Steele encouragingly, "I've heard that these wretches think nothing of murdering a stranger for a ring or a few reales."

"Dthere ees no fear; I haf mine pistol."

But nevertheless I have a delightfully creepy sensation as we pass the occasional groups of evil-looking natives, and I keep close beside the muscular Peruvian, with a new sense of comfort in his presence. At the little hotel not far from the wharf the Baron orders supper, and then takes us into the market.

This interesting place is lit with smoky old lamps and flaring torches, and the fitful light shows weird pictures to our unaccustomed eyes. Each booth is in charge of one or more women, and here and there is a man resplendent in overshadowing sombrero, with heavy silver braid wound about the crown. The women have the scantiest of clothing, arms and neck bare, dark eyes glittering, and dusky unkempt hair. The atmosphere is stifling, but we must endure it long enough to get some of the wares. The women chatter volubly, and even leave their booths to come and take us by the dress and urge us to some dingy stall. Vegetables and fruit are piled about in profusion, but we make our way to the pottery tables. I am afraid to admire the curious designs and archaic workmanship, for everything I notice approvingly the Peruvian straightway buys, and we soon have a basket full.

"Ah! Figurines you must haf!" he exclaims as we approach a booth populous with little clay figures, tiny men and women in native dress, engaged in native avocations. These evidence no small cleverness in the modeller, and the Baron insists on taking a dozen. Far on the other side of the market some Indian women crouch in a semi-circle over an open air fire.

"What are they doing?" asks Mrs. Steele.

"Dthey make tortillas," says the Baron.

"Oh, yes, I've heard about these meal cakes," says my friend, stopping to look at the queer group. One old woman jumps up and offers her something smoking in a pan. Mrs. Steele, bent upon discovery, bravely tears off a bit and tastes it, throwing the woman a coin.

"Give me some," I say.

"No," interposes the Baron, with a fatherly decision; "you vill haf supper soon, and I haf order tortillas. Mine vill be better. Vait leedle."

Really, the Baron has quite taken me in hand, I think, half amused. But he is a very necessary quantity in this pilgrimage ashore, and I walk on obediently by his side, meditating how queer that one who appeared so masterful and imperious at times could be at others so weak and almost childish. It shed a new light on his character to see him ashore. Here he knows the people and their tongue, all our wants must pass through his interpretation, and he is master of the situation. He seems, moreover, to fall naturally and simply into the new office, and treats me quite as if I were a child. I want to stop and get some plantains as we pass a fruit stall.

"No," says the Baron, "you must not eat dthem; dthey air—unreif."

"Ah, but really," I say, "I must taste a plaintain; suppose you had never seen one of that kind before."

"I vill not buy dthem; I vill not see you ill," he says.

"Very well, I'll buy one for myself." I drop his arm and run to the booth, and, laying my finger on the greenest plantain I can find, I say:

"Quantos?"

The old woman in charge gabbles away for dear life, and, not feeling that I am progressing very rapidly, I lay down a media and take up the plantain. The Baron comes to my rescue with a half-amused, half-vexed smile.

"She haf cheat you," and he levels a volley of Spanish at the old criminal. "See," he says, "she vill gif you all dthose limes if you gif back dthat plantain, you vill be glad of limes abord du San Miguel."

"Yes," I say. "I'll have the limes, too." And I put down another media. He looks at me curiously.

"Ask her to send them to the hotel," I say. He gives the old woman some rapid directions.

"Now ve vill haf supper," and we are soon sitting in a private room at the hotel discussing soup, fish, tortillas and frejoles (the Mexican black bean) and enchalades, which are only the coarse Indian meal cakes, "tortillas," rolled up like a French pancake, with cheese and cayenne pepper and a variety of disagreeable things inside, but considered quite a delicacy among Mexicans. It is long before I recover from my first mouthful, and the Baron stands over me with a fan and a glass of wine, while Mrs. Steele laughs until the tears come into her eyes.

"Water! water!" I gasp.

"No, vino blanco, SeÑorita," says the Baron, putting the glass to my lips. I drain the last drop.

"Now some water, please."

"Yes, leedle more vino blanco," says the Peruvian, pouring out another glass.

"Don't you understand?" I say hotly. "I want water—Wasser! De l'eau—Aqua!"

The waiter starts at the last word and takes up a clay carafe.

The Baron shakes his head and gives some brief command in Spanish. The servant looks sulky and puts down the bottle.

"What do you mean?" I say, with still smarting tongue. "Is it Spanish etiquette to ask a lady to supper and then refuse her a glass of water?"

"Madame," says the Peruvian quietly to Mrs. Steele, "no von here drink vater; it makes always fery seeck," and he signs to the servant to serve the next course.

"I despise vino blanco," I say; "I'd as soon drink weak vinegar." Nevertheless I sip my second glass, as there is no prospect of anything else.

A "moso" comes in with a big basket containing our purchases. I beckon him to bring it to me, and look among the limes for my precious plantain.

"SeÑorita," says the Peruvian, breaking off a conversation with Mrs. Steele upon native dishes, "I haf here pineapple sairve vidth ice and sugar and vine; it is dthe most delicieux of all fruit. Allow me to raicommend you." And the waiter puts the tempting plate before me.

"Thank you," I say, "but I am looking for my plantain. Will you have the boy find it, there are so many things in this basket?" A few words between the "moso" and the Baron, the latter smiles a little.

"TrÈs curieux, dthat old voman forget to put in dthat plantain!"

Mrs. Steele's amusement is most offensive.

"My dear, you are in the power of the interpreter; you will find our friend less manageable on shore than on board the San Miguel."

The Baron looks innocence itself and creates a diversion by throwing pieces of roll out over the lattice to the street children, whose black eyes and black fingers appear through the slats. Each piece is received with squeals, a grand rush and protracted squabbling, and finally the more audacious appear at the door. They peep in, throw us a flower and then scuttle away. One tiny beggar brings a small bouquet and puts it in my lap. The Baron gives her a media and says something about "vamos." She flies off, but only to tell the rest of the success of her mission, and the whole horde troop in and pile the corner of the table with more or less faded roses and appeal vociferously for "Media! media!" The Baron, seeing that we are amused, tosses a coin over their heads. It goes over the lattice and into the street, and the black little troop tear out and fight and scuffle under the window. They come in again and again, but finally, Peruvian patience and Mexican medias being alike exhausted, the Baron rises in his seat looking remarkably ferocious, and addresses them in stirring Spanish. The whole crowd take to their heels, tumbling one over another in excited haste.

"What in the world have you said?" asked Mrs. Steele, greatly amused.

"Oh, nodthing much," says the Baron in his usual low and gentle tone; "I only zay if dthey effer come again I vill cut dthem up vidth a big knife and haf dthem boil for breakfast."

"You barbarian!" laughs Mrs. Steele, rising. And then she looks about. "We might have a glimpse of the church before we go if there's time."

"Sairtainly!" agrees the Baron, and we find our way through the now quieter and dimmer thoroughfare to the Catholic Cathedral behind the Plaza. The occasional candle gives out too dim a light for us to form much of an idea of the interior, but it is cool and damp and mysterious. Mrs. Steele, who is a thorough and highly intelligent sightseer, explores the dim corners and finally goes back for a last look at some detail she found specially interesting. I wait for her in the dusk down by the door; the Baron has disappeared for the moment. "I wish Mrs. Steele wouldn't be so particular about taking notes," I say to myself. "I'm tired, and it's very uncanny and grave-like here." A little sound beside me, and I turn with a start. In the dim light I see a chimpanzee-like face looking up to mine. It is horribly seared and wrinkled, one tooth sticks out from the wide, shrivelled lips, and the beady animal-like eyes glare through grey elf locks. I am speechless with fright, till the dreadful apparition stretches out a skinny arm and with some strange words lays a claw-like hand on my bare wrist. I shrink back, uttering a little muffled cry of horror.

The big Peruvian comes hurriedly towards me from the other side of the church.

"Vas dthat you, SeÑorita?" he says.

Faint with fatigue and fright, I put out a shaking hand to steady myself self against the damp pillar.

"SeÑorita, you air so white!" he says hurriedly, and coming near he draws me away from the clammy wall.

"You haf been frighten?" he asks softly, his face close to mine.

"Yes," I find breath to say; "a witch or a monkey is in the church, and it touched me in the dark."

A shiver runs over me again at the remembrance, but I try to draw away from the strong, close grasp.

"You vill faint, SeÑorita—I cannot let you go; dthere ees no seat here." He takes off my hat and fans me. "Zome boy try to frighten you," he says consolingly.

Mrs. Steele calls from the other side: "Where are you, Blanche?"

The Baron answers for me, holds me closer for an instant, and I think he touches my hair lightly with his lips.

"Forgif me, SeÑorita. I vill find dthat boy vhat frighten you zo; I vill gif him von hundred pesos for my sake, and I vill kill him afterwards for yours."

I put on my hat a little unsteadily, still thinking more of that awful brutish face than of the Baron. Mrs. Steele comes up with note-book open in her hand.

"I've just seen the most dreadful little old crone," she says cheerily; "she's like some grotesque dream—why, what's the matter——?"

She breaks off, looking at me as we stand under the lamplight just outside the door.

"It must be the same thing I saw," I say to the Baron; "what a goose I am—but it looked like nothing human in the half light. I was so scared," I confess, a little nervously.

"You look like a ghost, child; it was only a withered old beggar." And Mrs. Steele puts her arm about me, and we go to inspect an ancient well where the native women are filling clay jars and chatting merrily as they file in and out of the gateway of the enclosure with their picturesque burdens gracefully poised on head or shoulder.

"Let us go to dthe Plaza; Madame and SeÑorita can sit down for a leedle."

It is only a step, and we are soon resting on one of the semi-circular stone seats, listening to some primitive music and watching the enjoyment of the people. Mrs. Steele draws my head down on her shoulder and I shut my eyes. The Baron puts a coat over me and hums a low accompaniment to the fantastic air. Suddenly I become aware of someone touching me from behind the stone seat. I start up and turn quickly, to find my apparition of the church chattering at my back. Her restless eyes and the one white fang shine out from the shrivelled monkey-face, and the skeleton arms with wrinkled, black skin drawn loosely over the bones hold out long strings of shells. The strong light shows her even uglier than I had thought, but it robs her of her ghostliness, and I interrupt the Baron's probably impolite remarks by saying:

"Don't drive her away. I'll buy some of her shells in remembrance of the worst shock I've received in Mexico."

Soon I am decorated with chains of sea-treasures wound about waist and neck and arms, and the old crone stands by gibbering and nodding approval.

The Baron laughs at her last shot as she moves away with my media in her hand and some unusually rich guerdon from him.

"What is she chattering about?" asks Mrs. Steele.

"She zay she know dthe SeÑorita vidth dthe pretty eyes would like dthe shaills, and dthat vas vhy she follow her in dthe church, but SeÑorita ees easy frighten. SeÑor must take gude care off her and nefer leaf her."

Mrs. Steele smiles indulgently and draws out her watch.

"It's time we were going," she says. "The San Miguel's lights will be all out, I'm afraid."

The Baron's "cargodor" meets us at the wharf laden with our bizarre purchases, and, after bestowing us and them in the boat, he dips his oars and we glide out into the bay. The far-off steamer is wrapped in darkness, the lamps are all extinguished in the staterooms, for it is long past eleven, but the waves flash every attack of the oar, and the Southern Cross shines aslant the sky.