lus, or little frog, as Linnaeus wittily calls these water
lovers, marked the course of a narrow stream which had long ago broken
away from its former wooden trough. Among the stones and decaying beams
were enormous bushes of nightshade, which seemed to poison the plants
about them, all of which had a sickly green wherever they grew under its
shadow.

This place, with its surrounding acres, was my property, and had been
before the fire which had destroyed the adobe house, one of the
prettiest spots in the country.

There had long been a spirited contest between my grandfather and the
father of Madre Moreno over this bit of property, a strife which had
caused much bad feeling in both families, and when it was at last
settled in favour of our side, old Juan Moreno lost all control of his
feelings, and in a fit of anger dropped dead at the very door of the
court. Though the anger and chagrin at the loss of his case hastened his
death, he had always been subject to a trouble of the heart which was
liable to prove fatal at any moment under undue excitement. Ambrosia
Moreno, who was called Madre, when she grew older, held our family to
blame for this affliction, and made a vow that every generation of the
Sotos should suffer through this plot of ground as long as she lived.

This curse was first felt in the time of Ignacio de Soto, my
grandfather, when the fig trees failed to put forth fruit and the olives
were all blighted. By this, Ambrosia Moreno established her reputation
in the country as a witch, and was never omitted from a christening or
wedding or from any auspicious event where her ill will might, in any
possible way, cause misfortune.

In time Madre Moreno grew proud of this distinction awarded to her,
dressing and acting so as to lead the people to believe her to have
supernatural assistance, and when in the time of the next generation,
the night of the marriage of my father with Neves Arguello, (to which
celebration Madre Moreno was uninvited), the adobe house in the grove of
figs, which had stood untenanted for years, was burned to the ground,
her reputation as a witch was firmly established throughout the country;
many a good woman after that event, when the wind carried off the
clothes drying on the hedges, or the soot fell down the chimney into the
kitchen at night, knew that the Madre was about, playing her mischievous
pranks.

One day Mercedes Dana, a girl whom we rather felt sorry for, (her
mother, w