She stepped aside and sat down under a tree. The lids dropped over her eyes. After a time, she thought that her mother was coming to her along the white road from the graveyard. No one was coming. Still, the child felt certain that some one must come. Who? A yamyol. Hadn’t old Kulik told her that a yamyol was above her? Marysia knew what a yamyol is. In her mother’s cottage there was one painted with a shield in his hand and with wings. He would come, surely. Somehow the ice began to sound more loudly. Maybe that is the noise of his wings, scattering drops more abundantly. Stop! Some one is coming really; the snow, though soft, sounds clearly; steps are coming, and coming quietly but quickly. The child raises her sleepy eyelids with confidence. “What is that?” Looking at the little girl intently is a gray three-cornered face with ears, standing upright,—ugly, terrible! [Illustration: THE BULL FIGHT A REMINISCENCE of SPAIN] [Illustration: THE BULL FIGHT A Reminiscence of Spain] IT is Sunday! Great posters, affixed for a number of days to the corners of Puerta del Sol, Calle Alcala, and all streets on which there was considerable movement, announce to the city that to-day, “Si el tiempo lo permite” (if the weather permits), will take place bull-fight XVI., in which Cara-Ancha Lagartijo and the renowned Frascuello are to appear as “espadas” (swords). Well, the weather permits. There was rain in the morning; but about ten o’clock the wind broke the clouds, gathered them into heaps, and drove them away off somewhere in the direction of the Escurial. Now the wind itself has ceased; the sky as far as the eye can reach is blue, and over the Puerta del Sol a bright sun is shining,—such a Madrid sun, which not only warms, not only burns, but almost bites. Movement in the city is increasing, and on people’s faces satisfaction is evident. Two o’clock. The square of the Puerta del Sol is emptying gradually, but crowds of people are advancing through the Calle Alcala toward the Prado. In the middle is flowing a river of carriages and vehicles. All that line of equipages is moving very slowly, for on the sidewalks there is not room enough for pedestrians, many of whom are walking along the sides of the streets and close to the carriages. The police, on white horses and in showy uniforms and three-cornered hats, preserve order. It is Sunday, that is evident, and an afternoon hour; the toilets are carefully made, the attire is holiday. It is evident also that the crowds are going to some curious spectacle. Unfortunately the throng is not at all many-colored; no national costumes are visible,—neither the short coats, yellow kerchiefs _á la contrabandista_, with one end dropping down to the shoulder, nor the round Biscay hats, nor girdles, nor the Catalan knives behind the girdles.