"It is needless, Don Ruis. See, it is an easy matter." And with that she unwound her crimson girdle, and in a moment, with dexterous skill, she removed the broken girth, replaced the saddle on the horse, and bound it to him with the sash. "But I thank you," she added, gravely. Ruis was a little sceptical about the security of this arrangement, and that scepticism he ventured to express. But the girl was on the horse, unassisted, before he had finished the sentence. "Have no fears, Don Ruis. Besides, our house is but a little bird's flight from here. I could have walked, if need were." Ruis remounted. "May I not accompany you?" he asked. "To-morrow," she answered; and for the first time she smiled. For to-morrow in a Cuban mouth means anything except what it expresses. And as she said it, Ruis smiled too. "How do you know my name?" he inquired. "We--my mother and I--we are your neighbors." "Ah, Dona Fausta, in that case, I pray you make my duty to the lady your mother, and beg of her a permission that I may do so myself." Again she smiled. "To-morrow," she lisped, and whipped her horse. Ruis raised his hat as before, and bowed. "God be with you, Dona Fausta." "And with you, Don Ruis." The next morning he was on the red road again, but no maiden in distress was discoverable that day. The sun chased him home, and as he lounged through high noon in the cool of the veranda, he marvelled at his earlier boredom. Later on he sent for one of the overseers and questioned him minutely. Whatever information he may have gleaned, it was presumably satisfactory. He watched the sun expire in throes of crimson and gamboge, and night unloose her leash of stars. Then he took horse again, and, aided by information received, in ten minutes he was at Dona Fausta's door. It was a shabby door, he noticed, the portal of a still shabbier abode, and even in the starlight he divined that if ever wealth had passed that way, it had long since taken flight. The noise of hoofs brought the girl to the porch. "At your feet, Dona Fausta," he said, and raised his hat. "I am come to offer my homage to the lady your mother, and to you, if I may." "Who is it?" called a voice from within; and then, for ampler satisfaction of the inquiry, a lean old woman, gray of hair, unkempt, wrinkled, and bent, appeared in the doorway and fastened on Ruis two glittering, inquisitorial eyes. "The son of Don Jayme," the girl answered; "he wishes you well." With a perfectly perceptible shrug the woman turned and disappeared. "She has suffered much," the girl explained. "Don Ruis, you are welcome." Ruis dismounted and gave the horse a lash with his whip. "It will be pleasant to walk back," he said, as the horse started. "Mariquita can find her way home unguided." He smiled; he was pleased with himself: and the girl smiled too. "Tell me," he added, "do you live here always?" "Always, Don Ruis."