emplate. Even the brilliant glow of the sky, reflected
upon her countenance, did not dissipate the shadows that were passing
over it. The clouds from within overcame the light from without. There
were shadows flitting over her heart that corresponded to those that
darkened her fair face.

It was a beautiful face withal, and a beautiful form--tall, majestic, of
soft graces and waving outlines. The lady was Catalina de Cruces.

She was alone upon the azotea--surrounded only by the plants and
flowers. Bending over the low parapet that overlooked the garden to the
rear, she at the same time faced toward the sinking orb,--for the garden
extended westward.

Now and then her eyes were lifted to the sky and the sun; but oftener
they sought the shaded coppice of wild-china-trees at the bottom of the
enclosure, through whose slender trunks gleamed the silvery surface of
the stream. Upon this spot they rested from time to time, with an
expression of strange interest. No wonder that to those eyes that was
an interesting spot--it was that where love's first vows had been
uttered in her delighted ear--it had been consecrated by a kiss, and in
her thoughts it was hallowed from the "earth's profound" to the high
heaven above her. No wonder she regarded it as the fairest on earth.
The most famed gardens of the world--even Paradise itself--in her
imagination, had no spot so sweet, no nook so shady, as the little
arbour she had herself trained amid the foliage of those
wild-china-trees.

Why was she regarding it with a look of sadness? In that very arbour,
and on that very night, did she expect to meet him--the one who had
rendered it sacred. Why then was she sad? Such a prospect should have
rendered her countenance radiant with joy.

And so was it, at intervals, when this thought came into her mind; but
there was another--some other thought--that brought those clouds upon
her brow, and imparted that air of uneasy apprehension. What was that
thought?

In her hand she held a bandolon. She flung herself upon a bench, and
began to play some old Spanish air. The effort was too much for her.
Her thoughts wandered from the melody, and her fingers from the strings.

She laid down the instrument, and, again rising to her feet, paced
backwards and forwards upon the azotea. Her walk was irregular. At
intervals she stopped, and, lowering her eyes, seemed to think intently
on something that was absent. Then she would start fo