en then cared to inquire. For there was a pretty
mantling of her olive cheek, as I came forward with my offering, and a
certain significant shyness in her manner that were enough to throw
me into a state of hopeless imbecility. And I was always miserably
conscious that Consuelo possessed an exalted sentimentality, and a
predilection for the highest mediaeval romance, in which I knew I was
lamentably deficient. Even in our most confidential moments I was
always aware that I weakly lagged behind this daughter of a gloomily
distinguished ancestry, in her frequent incursions into a vague
but poetic past. There was something of the dignity of the Spanish
chatelaine in the sweetly grave little figure that advanced to accept my
specious offering. I think I should have fallen on my knees to present
it, but for the presence of the all seeing Enriquez. But why did I even
at that moment remember that he had early bestowed upon her the nickname
of "Pomposa"? This, as Enriquez himself might have observed, was "sad
and strange."

I managed to stammer out something about the Madrono berries being at
her "disposicion" (the tree was in her own garden!), and she took the
branches in her little brown hand with a soft response to my unutterable
glances.

But here Chu Chu, momentarily forgotten, executed a happy diversion. To
our astonishment she gravely walked up to Consuelo and, stretching out
her long slim neck, not only sniffed curiously at the berries, but even
protruded a black underlip towards the young girl herself. In another
instant Consuelo's dignity melted. Throwing her arms around Chu Chu's
neck she embraced and kissed her. Young as I was, I understood the
divine significance of a girl's vicarious effusiveness at such a moment,
and felt delighted. But I was the more astonished that the usually
sensitive horse not only submitted to these caresses, but actually
responded to the extent of affecting to nip my mistress's little right
ear.

This was enough for the impulsive Consuelo. She ran hastily into the
house, and in a few moments reappeared in a bewitching riding-skirt
gathered round her jimp waist. In vain Enriquez and myself joined in
earnest entreaty: the horse was hardly broken for even a man's riding
yet; the saints alone could tell what the nervous creature might do
with a woman's skirt flapping at her side! We begged for delay, for
reflection, for at least time to change the saddle--but with no avail!
Consuelo was de