rs in the evening sometimes.'

'He danced three times with you at the Pinata ball, and he walks with
you on Sunday evenings in the Plaza de Armas, when the military band
plays.'

'You are not jealous?'

'N--no; I am only afraid lest young Amador admires you too much.'

'What of that?'

'Don Catasus has a large coffee plantation, and you know what a
partiality your father has for sons of wealthy planters.'

'Are you angry?'

'No, I am not angry, mi tojosita.'

'Me quieres mucho?'

'Muchisimo, pichona mia. Deme un beso.'

'Before giving you one, you must promise two things.'

'What are they?'

'That you will not be jealous, and that you will go no more to the
Pica-pica balls.'

'I have been only once this season, mi vidita.'

'My black maid Gumersinda was there, and she says that you danced all
night with the mulattoes.'

'I was practising the difficult step of La Danza Criolla.'

'It is danced very improperly by the coloured people at the Pica-pica.'

'Many of my white acquaintances go to these balls, and I am only
following their custom and that of the country.'

'Promise not to go again this season.'

'I promise; so, deme un beso.'

Cachita inserts her soft face between the obliging bars of the huge
window, and as nobody is passing at that moment, I take an affectionate
leave of my 'Piedra.'

My interviews with Cachita at her window become rare on account of Don
Severiano's suspicions, and as Cuban ladies of all ages never leave
their homes to visit their next-door neighbour without a trusty escort,
I have no other opportunity for an uninterrupted tete-a-tete.
Occasionally I meet my fair one at early mass in one of the churches, or
at the musical promenade in the public square, but on these occasions
she is always accompanied by a friend or a relative, and a couple of
black attendants.

On the approach of Cachita's saint's day, Santa Caridad, I favour my
divinity with a little midnight music. Those of my friends whose
sweethearts are called Caridad, join me in hiring a few musicians and a
couple of vocalists. When our minstrels have performed their first
melody, the Sereno, or night-watchman, appears, and demands to see our
serenade licence, because, out of the carnival season, no serenading is
allowed without a special permit from the authorities. After duly
exhibiting our licence, the music proceeds, and when a song, composed
expressly for the lady we are serenading, has been sung, and a