tty
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_[157-1] 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 "disposition" (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-shirt. 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 flipping at her
side! We begged for delay, for reflection, for at least time to change
the saddle--but with no avail! Consuelo was determined, indignant,
distressingly reproachful! Ah, well! if Don Pa