ore so, as such delightful retreats are by no means common
in that country. But it was to another mind than his that these shadowy
trees and fragrant arbours owed their existence. They were the "ideas"
of his fair daughter, many of whose hours were spent beneath their
shade.

To Don Ambrosio the sight of a great cavity in the earth, with huge
quarries of quartz rock or scoria, and a rich "veta" at the back, was
more agreeable than all the flowers in the world. A pile of "barras de
plata" would be to his eyes more interesting than a whole country
covered with black tulips and blue dahlias.

Not so his fair daughter Catalina. Her taste was both elevated and
refined. The thought of wealth, the pride of riches, never entered her
mind. She would willingly have surrendered all her much-talked-of
inheritance to have shared the humble rancho of him she loved.

CHAPTER FORTY THREE.

It was near sunset. The yellow orb was hastening to kiss the snowy
summit of the Sierra Blanca, that barred the western horizon. The white
mantle, that draped the shoulders of the mountain, reflected beautiful
roseate tints deepening into red and purple in the hollows of the
ravines, and seeming all the more lovely from the contrast of the dark
forests that covered the Sierra farther down.

It was a sunset more brilliant than common. The western sky was filled
with masses of coloured clouds, in which gold and purple and cerulean
blue mingled together in gorgeous magnificence; and in which the eye of
the beholder could not fail to note the outlines of strange forms, and
fancy them bright and glorious beings of another world. It was a
picture to gladden the eye, to give joy to the heart that was sad, and
make happier the happy.

It was not unobserved. Eyes were dwelling upon it--beautiful eyes; and
yet there was a sadness in their look that ill accorded with the picture
on which they were gazing.

But those eyes were not drawing their inspiration from the sky-painting
before them. Though apparently regarding it, the thoughts which gave
them expression were drawn from a far different source. The heart
within was dwelling upon another object.

The owner of those eyes was a beautiful girl, or rather a fully
developed woman still unmarried. She was standing upon the azotea of a
noble mansion, apparently regarding the rich sunset, while, in reality,
her thoughts were busy with another theme, and one that was less
pleasant to cont