rward, and this journey will be still more pleasant next
week than now."

"In spite of its hardships," said Lady Mabel, "it has been so
agreeable to me, that I would have it last a week longer. As an
escort, interpreter, and cicerone, Colonel L'Isle has no rival. He
has, too, filled the commissary's place so well, that we have suffered
nothing from your good man's desertion."

The pleasure Lady Mabel expressed, and her frank admission that she
wished the journey longer, delighted L'Isle. He longed to tell her
that he was ever at her command as companion, guardian, and guide on
any journey, however long. But no--he must not say that. He had no
thoughts of matrimony--at least, just now. A remote prospect did
indeed float before his eyes, in which he saw himself having outlived
this war, and attained the rank of Major-General, returning home to
find Lady Mabel still lovely and still free to listen to a lover's
suit. This was but a bright vista of the future, hemmed in and
overhung by many a dark contingency, a glowing picture in an ebony
frame.

The character of the country underwent a change as they rode on.
Sloping downward toward the Guadiana, over a succession of hills which
concealed the descent, the soil became more fertile, but was scarcely
more cultivated than in the region which they had just left behind
them. The heaths and broom plants now gave place to a variety of
evergreen shrubs. Though the forest trees had vanished centuries ago,
the prospect was often shut out by the thickets that overspread the
country. An occasional spot of open ground indicated some attempts at
cultivation, but they saw few peasants, and but one village seated on
a hill, until passing a wretched hamlet, they reach the bank of a
brook. The shade of some trees, already in full leaf, in this
sheltered spot, tempted them to make here their noonday halt.

Seating herself on the fern and moss at the foot of an old
mulberry-tree that overhung the little stream, Lady Mabel pointed out
to her companions, that the trees around them were all of the same
kind.

"They were doubtless planted here," said L'Isle, "when the silk
culture throve in this country, a branch of industry, which, with too
many others, has almost died out. Civil disorder and foreign war have
been fatal to it. The Spaniards have made Alemtejo their highroad in
every invasion of Portugal; and the disasters of late years have
completed the ruins of this frontier, so long a d