e between a double line of tall, green-shuttered
houses; over the bridges that span the vast open drains; past the
ochre-coloured cathedral; down the promenade edged with great
magnolia-trees, that made the air heavy with their perfume, and where
twice a week the band plays, and the Portuguese officials march up and
down in all the pomp and panoply of office; onward through the dip,
where the town lopes downwards to the sea; then up again through more
streets, and past a stretch of dead wall, after which the chariot
wheels through some iron gates, and he is in fairyland. One each side
of the carriage-way there spreads a garden calculated to make English
horticulturists gnash their teeth with envy, through the bowers of
which he could catch peeps of green turf and of the blue sea beyond.

Here the cabbage palm shot its smooth and lofty trunk high into the
air, there the bamboo waved its leafy ostrich plumes, and all about
and around the soil was spread like an Indian shawl, with many a
gorgeous flower and many a splendid fruit. Arthur thought of the
garden of Eden and the Isles of the Blest, and whilst his eyes,
accustomed to nothing better than our poor English roses, were still
fixed upon the blazing masses of pomegranate flower, and his senses
were filled with the sweet scent of orange and magnolia blooms, the
oxen halted before the portico of a stately building, white-walled and
green-shuttered like all Madeira houses.

Then the slaves of the chariot assisted him to descend, whilst other
slaves of the door bowed him up the steps, and he stood in a great
cool hall, dazzling dark after the brilliancy of the sunlight. And
here no slave awaited him, but the princess of this fair domain, none
other than Mildred Carr herself, clad all in summer white, and with a
smile of welcome in her eyes.

"I am so glad that you have come. How do you like Madeira? Do you find
it very hot?"

"I have not seen much of it yet; but this place is lovely, it is like
fairyland, and, I believe, that you," he added, with a bow, "are the
fairy queen."

"Compliments again, Mr. Heigham. Well, I was the sleeping beauty last
time, so one may as well be a queen for a change. I wonder what you
will call me next?"

"Let me see: shall we say--an angel?"

"Mr. Heigham, stop talking nonsense, and come into the drawing-room."

He followed her, laughing, into an apartment that, from its noble
proportions and beauty, might fairly be called magnificen