appy
child.

"Don't you like it, Uncle, after all?" said she laughing. "It's exactly
what one has read of in Juan Cordova's stories, to be bivouacking in a
great forest, with a great fire, to keep away the jaguars."

"Hush! and go to sleep, child. I neither like it for thee nor myself.
There are more dangerous things than jaguars in these woods."

"Ah, you mean the bears, Uncle?"

"I do not," growled he, sulkily.

"As for snakes, one gets used to them; besides, they go into the tall
grass."

"Ay, ay, snakes in the grass, just so!" muttered the Friar; "but this
youth will be back presently, and let him not hear you talk such silly
nonsense. Good night, good night."

"Good night," sighed she, "but I cannot sleep; I love so to see the
fireflies dancing through the leaves, and to hear that rushing river."

"Hush! he's coming," said the Friar; and all was still.

When I came up, "the Friar" was again sunk in holy meditation, so that,
disposing myself beside the fire, with my rifle at one side, and my
pistols at the other, I lay down to sleep. Although I closed my eyes
and lay still, I did not sleep. My thoughts were full of Donna Maria, of
whom I weaved a hundred conjectures. It was evident she was young; her
voice was soft and musical too, and had that pleasant bell-like cadence
so indicative of a light heart and a happy nature. Why was she called
the "Los Dolores"? I asked myself again and again what had she in
her joyous-ness to do with grief and care; and why should she enter a
convent and become a nun? These were questions there was no solving, and
apparently, if I might judge from the cadence of her now deep sigh, no
less puzzling to herself than to me. The more my interest became excited
for her, the stronger grew my dislike to the Friar. That he was a surly
old tyrant, I perfectly satisfied myself. What a pity that I could not
rescue her from such cruelty as easily as I saved her from the cataract!

Would that I could even see her! There was something so tormenting in
the mystery of her concealment, and so, I deemed, must she herself feel
it. We should be so happy together, journeying along day by day through
the forest! What tales would I not tell her of my wanderings, and how I
should enjoy the innocence of her surprise at my travelled wonders! And
all the strange objects of these wild woods,--how they would interest
and amuse, were there "two" to wonder at and admire them! How I wished
she might be pre