of the beautiful manola.

From the moment of the bull's death till the end of the fight, Juancho
did not once look at Militona. He despatched with unparalleled dexterity
two other bulls that fell to his share, and was applauded as vehemently
as he had previously been hissed. Andres, either not deeming it prudent,
or not finding a good pretext to renew the conversation, didn't speak
another word to Militona, and even left the circus a few minutes before
the conclusion of the performances. Whilst stepping across the benches,
he whispered something to a boy of quick and intelligent physiognomy,
and then immediately disappeared.

The boy, when the audience rose to depart, mingled in the crowd, and,
without any apparent design, attached himself to the steps of Militona
and the duenna. He saw them get into their cabriolet, and when the
vehicle rolled away on its great scarlet wheels, he hung on behind, as
if giving way to a childish impulse, and was whirled through a cloud of
dust, singing at the top of his voice the popular ditty of the Bulls of
Puerto.

"Well done!" exclaimed Andres, who, from an alley of the Prado, which he
had already reached, saw cab and boy rattle past: "in an hour I shall
know the address of the charming manola."

Andres had reckoned without the chapter of accidents. In the Calle de
los Desamparados, a cut across the face from the whip of the surly
_calesero_, forced the ragged Mercury to let go his hold. Before he
could pick himself up, and rub the dust and tears from his eyes, the
vehicle was at the farther end of the street, and although Perico,
impressed with the importance of his mission, followed it at the top of
his speed, he lost sight of it in the labyrinth of lanes adjacent to the
Plaza de Lavapies--literally, Washfeet Square--a low quarter of Madrid.
The most he could ascertain was, that the calesin had deposited its
burthen in one of four streets, but in which of them it was impossible
to say. With the bait of a dollar before his eyes, however, the urchin
was not to be discouraged; and late that night, as Don Andres was
returning from a wearisome tertulia, whither he had been compelled to
accompany Dona Feliciana de los Rios, he felt a pull at the skirt of his
coat. It was Perico.

"Caballero," said the child, "she lives in the Calle del Povar, the
third house on the right. I saw her at her window, taking in the water
jar."

It is difficult to describe the style of architecture of t