the national costume for the _mode de Paris_!
There is the rich "_hacendado_," Senor Gomez del Monte, the owner of
countless flocks and broad acres in the valley; and there are others of
his class with their senoras and senoritas. And there, too, observed of
all, is the lovely Catalina de Cruces, the daughter of Don Ambrosio, the
wealthy miner. He will be a lucky fellow who wins the smiles of
Catalina, or rather perhaps the good graces of her father--for Don
Ambrosio will have much to say in the matter of her marriage. Indeed,
it is rumoured that that matter is already arranged; and that Captain
Roblado, second in command at the Presidio, is the successful suitor.
There stands he, in full moustache, covered with gold-lace, back and
front, and frowning fiercely on every one who dares to rest eye for a
moment upon the fair Catalina. With all his gold-lace and gallant
strut, Catalina displays no great taste in her choice;--but is he her
choice? Maybe not--maybe he is the choice of Don Ambrosio; who, himself
of plebeian origin, is ambitious that his blood should be mingled with
that of the military hidalgo. The soldier has no money--beyond his pay;
and that is mortgaged for months in advance; but he is a true
_Gachupino_, of "blue blood," a genuine "hijo de algo." Not a singular
ambition of the old miser, nor uncommon among parvenus.

Vizcarra, the Comandante, is on the ground--a tall colonel of forty--
laced and plumed like a peacock. A lively bachelor is he; and while
chatting with padre, cura, or alcalde, his eye wanders to the faces of
the pretty _poblanas_ that are passing the spot. These regard his
splendid uniform with astonishment, which he, fancying himself "Don Juan
Tenorio," mistakes for admiration, and repays with a bland smile.

There, too, is the third officer--there are but the three--the
_teniente_, Garcia by name. He is better looking, and consequently more
of a favourite with both poblanas and rich senoritas, than either of his
superiors. I wonder the fair Catalina does not give her preference to
him. Who can tell that she does not? A Mexican dame does not carry her
soul upon her sleeve, nor upon her tongue neither.

It would be a task to tell of whom Catalina is thinking just now. It is
not likely at her age--she is twenty--that her heart is still her own;
but whose? Roblado's? I would wager, no. Garcia's? That would be a
fairer bet. After all, there are many others--young "hacendados,