f angels, to

s, that the da

eabouts. But then the town time is Spanish, that is to say that no one takes any notice of it. For into Spanish life time comes but little. If one wishes to catch a train--but, by the way, in Spain we do not catch, we

ls us that this, the finest promenade in the world, was once a sandy river-bed. Here no

dy is dressed in black, as all Spanish ladies are, and on her head she wears the long-lived mantilla, which will last our time and the

equally distinct. There is the man who wears the

ted chin. The air is chilly, and this promenader's black cloak is thrown well over the shoulder, displ

tened. One sees the history of a country in the faces of its men. In this there is the history of a past, it is the fac

ves the loose end a little shake, and casts it skilfully over his shoulder, so that it falls across his back, and, hanging there, displays the bright lining. He pauses to watch

grandeur of demeanour worthy o

orses which were beautiful even in this land of horses. For this was Cipriani de Lloseta de Mallorca, a great

so, into the door of which one could not only drive a coach and four, but eke a load of straw. Moreover, the driver could go to sleep and leave it to the horses, for there is plenty of space. This is the Casa Lloseta, the town residence since time immemorial of the family of that name. There are se

in a large house by himself; because it was not known what his tastes might be; because the interview

lar, his neighbours would shrug their shoulders and throw the end of the

osetas were left behind eight hundred years later, when the southern conqueror was driven back to his dark land. Among his friends it is known that Cipriani de Lloseta lived alone because he was faithful to the memory of one who, but

sort of wife this must have been; while their elders shrugged their ample s

woman herself as that w

d elderly ladies. They were once

one of any importance whatever, no one that is likely to recognise him, is aware of the fact that another favourite promenade of his is the Muelle de Ponente, that forsaken pier where the stone wor

ong stone pier, and his dark Spanish eyes rest on the st

often he gazes out in his chastened, impenetrable silence over the horizon, as if

of the horizon, behind those little

ion every inch of the wonderful soil of the plain. Below, the vast fertile plateau, tilled like a garden, lies to the westward, while to the east the ris

s, here at their highest, and in the fa

, rosemary, lavender, growing wild like heather, comes down to

y from it. As a man is dreaming of it now, just across that hundred m

he might be an Englishman. It is not every one of us who has a home from whence h

o has now left the Rambla and is

way out of the crowded harbour, and it will pass the pier-h

he steps and begins to walk on the little path around the circular tower at the end of the pier. He

y he comes upon a youthful Briton smok

e two me

ng in Barcelona?"

knows, my dear

o do with your coming he

ly down on a small grani

rom--Well, from an old woman who wants me to marry her daughter. I went to Monte Carlo, and, if

ard smile

ling v

irl, sir, was actually shivering with fright one night when the old wom

ss towards Majorca were no

She didn't answer. 'You're afraid that I'm going to ask you to marry me.' 'Yes,' she answered. 'Well, I'm not. I'm not such a cad.' And after that

ung man began to think that

arency which did no harm. "Yes, you're right. The devil had somethi

cigar. The steamer passed wi

man nodded

oing to Majo

nodded h

swered grave

own to se

d looked at

" he

across to fetch an English girl, a

to send a carriage for the Englishman and his luggage to bring him to the big house in the Str

s vast home alone, "so the Caballero Challoner is