description. And have you seen this same fairy-like creature
suddenly perch itself on a twig, in the shade, its misty wings

and fan-like tail folded, the iridescent glory vanished, looking
like some common dull-plumaged little bird sitting listless in a

cage? Just so great was the difference in the girl as I had seen
her in the forest and as she now appeared under the smoky roof in

the firelight.
After watching her for some moments, I spoke: "Rime, there must

be a good deal of strength in that frame of yours, which looks so
delicate; will you raise me up a little?"

She went down on one knee and, placing her arms round me,
assisted me to a sitting posture.

"Thank you, Rima--oh, misery!" I groaned. "Is there a bone left
unbroken in my poor body?"

"Nothing broken," cried the old man, clouds of smoke flying out
with his words. "I have examined you well--legs, arms, ribs.

For this is how it was, senor. A thorny bush into which you fell
saved you from being flattened on the stony ground. But you are

bruised, sir, black with bruises; and there are more scratches of
thorns on your skin than letters on a written page."

"A long thorn might have entered my brain," I said, "from the way
it pains. Feel my forehead, Rima; is it very hot and dry?"

She did as I asked, touching me lightly with her little cool
hand. "No, senor, not hot, but warm and moist," she said.

"Thank Heaven for that!" I said. "Poor girl! And you followed
me through the wood in all that terrible storm! Ah, if I could

lift my bruised arm I would take your hand to kiss it in
gratitude for so great a service. I owe you my life, sweet

Rima--what shall I do to repay so great a debt?"
The old man chuckled as if amused, but the girl lifted not her

eyes nor spoke.
"Tell me, sweet child," I said, "for I cannot realize it yet; was

it really you that saved the serpent's life when I would have
killed it--did you stand by me in the wood with the serpent lying

at your feet?"
"Yes, senor," came her gentle answer.

"And it was you I saw in the wood one day, lying on the ground
playing with a small bird?"

"Yes, senor."
"And it was you that followed me so often among the trees,

calling to me, yet always hiding so that I could never see you?"
"Yes, senor."

"Oh, this is wonderful!" I exclaimed; whereat the old man
chuckled again.

"But tell me this, my sweet girl," I continued. "You never
addressed me in Spanish; what strange musical language was it you

spoke to me in?"
She shot a timid glance at my face and looked troubled at the

question, but made no reply.
"Senor," said the old man, "that is a question which you must

excuse my child from answering. Not, sir, from want of will, for
she is docile and obedient, though I say it, but there is no

answer beyond what I can tell you. And this is, sir, that all
creatures, whether man or bird, have the voice that God has given

them; and in some the voice is musical and in others not so."
"Very well, old man," said I to myself; "there let the matter

rest for the present. But if I am destined to live and not die,
I shall not long remain satisfied with your too simple

explanation."
"Rima," I said, "you must be fatigued; it is thoughtless of me to

keep you standing here so long."
Her face brightened a little, and bending down, she replied in a

low voice: "I am not fatigued, sir. Let me get you something to
eat now."

She moved quickly away to the fire, and presently returned with
an earthenware dish of roasted pumpkin and sweet potatoes and,

kneeling at my side, fed me deftly with a small wooden spoon. I
did not feel grieved at the absence of meat and the stinging

condiments the Indians love, nor did I even remark that there was
no salt in the vegetables, so much was I taken up with watching

her beautiful delicate face while she ministered to me. The
exquisite fragrance of her breath was more to me than the most

delicious viands could have been; and it was a delight each time
she raised the spoon to my mouth to catch a momentaryglimpse of

her eyes, which now looked dark as wine when we lift the glass to
see the ruby gleam of light within the purple. But she never for

a moment laid aside the silent, meek, constrained manner; and
when I remembered her bursting out in her brilliant wrath on me,

pouring forth that torrent of stinging invective in her
mysterious language, I was lost in wonder and admiration at the

change in her, and at her double personality. Having satisfied
my wants, she moved quietly away and, raising a straw mat,

disappeared behind it into her own sleeping-apartment, which was
divided off by a partition from the room I was in.

The old man's sleeping-place was a wooden cot or stand on the
opposite side of the room, but he was in no hurry to sleep, and

after Rima had left us, put a fresh log on the blaze and lit
another cigarette. Heaven knows how many he had smoked by this

time. He became very talkative and called to his side his two
dogs, which I had not noticed in the room before, for me to see.

It amused me to hear their names--Susio and Goloso: Dirty and
Greedy. They were surly-looking brutes, with rough yellow hair,

and did not win my heart, but according to his account they
possessed all the usual canine virtues; and he was still holding

forth on the subject when I fell asleep.
CHAPTER VIII

When morning came I was too stiff and sore to move, and not until
the following day was I able to creep out to sit in the shade of

the trees. My old host, whose name was Nuflo, went off with his
dogs, leaving the girl to attend to my wants. Two or three times

during the day she appeared to serve me with food and drink, but
she continued silent and constrained in manner as on the first

evening of seeing her in the hut.
Late in the afternoon old Nuflo returned, but did not say where

he had been; and shortly afterwards Rima reappeared, demure as
usual, in her faded cotton dress, her cloud of hair confined in

two long plaits. My curiosity was more excited than ever, and I
resolved to get to the bottom of the mystery of her life. The

girl had not shown herself responsive, but now that Nuflo was
back I was treated to as much talk as I cared to hear. He talked

of many things, only omitting those which I desired to hear
about; but his pet subject appeared to be the divine government

of the world--"God's politics"--and its manifest imperfections,
or, in other words, the manifold abuses which from time to time

had been allowed to creep into it. The old man was pious, but
like many of his class in my country, he permitted himself to

indulge in very free criticisms of the powers above, from the
King of Heaven down to the smallest saint whose name figures in

the calendar.
"These things, senor," he said, "are not properly managed.

Consider my position. Here am I compelled for my sins to inhabit
this wilderness with my poor granddaughter--"

"She is not your granddaughter!" I suddenly interrupted,
thinking to surprise him into an admission.

But he took his time to answer. "Senor, we are never sure of
anything in this world. Not absolutely sure. Thus, it may come

to pass that you will one day marry, and that your wife will in
due time present you with a son--one that will inherit your