"What in the world are those men doing?" asked Dolores, with her handkerchief to her mouth. "Do you suppose they are observing some religious rite?" Percy laughed as he assisted Dolores into her hammock, and swung himself into his own close beside her. "I fancy the ceremony you see will be of more practical benefit to us, than any religious rite;" he said. "The guides are burning the potéké--a native shrub, which brings sure deliverance from insects; lizards, gnats, bugs and reptiles of all descriptions take an unceremonious departure when that peppery perfume fills the air. We shall be insured of a good night's rest by that means." "Yes, if we are not choked to death by the odor," Dolores mumbled from the folds of her handkerchief. "Oh, Percy, look!" Percy looked in the direction indicated by Dolores, and his eyes were greeted by a phenomenon seen only in the plateaus of the Andes. It was the duplicating lines of the departing sun, upon the castellated rocks, as they pierced between the apexes and the basin. They reached in like silver threads, then flushed to gold and amber, as they fell deeper and deeper into the valley and rested in a trinity of colors upon the wonderful foliage, or hung like rainbows above the glittering brooks. Percy and Dolores gazed, silent and almost breathless, while the long lines of glory changed to softest amethyst and gray. The guides were sleeping soundly; the tired mules were knee-deep in wild clover; in among the leaves of the india-rubber trees, a bright-plumaged arajojo sang out his saucy Ta-ha-ha--Ta-ha-ha. Dolores reached out her hand and clasped Percy's, in the fading glory of the wonderful sunset. "Oh, love!" she sighed, "I wish God would let us die to-night, life is so perfect. And something tells me we are never to be so happy on earth again." CHAPTER XVI. A MAN AND TWO WOMEN. Soon after their return, Percy was called to Centerville, a large village a few hours' ride from New York. He had established a Mr. Griffith there in business, some months previous to his South American trip, and now their affairs needed overhauling and examining. Being detained over Sunday, Percy strolled out for a walk after his late breakfast. Centerville was not well provided with schools or other public buildings; but like the majority of large villages, it boasted several imposing church edifices. The day was warm, and crowned with an Indian summer haze. As he strolled by a costly stone temple of worship, out through the open windows floated a voice so pure, so beautiful, so magnetic, that he paused involuntarily to listen. It was a woman's voice, singing the old familiar hymn, but it held a new meaning for him as he listened: "Guide me, oh, thou Great Jehovah, Pilgrim through a barren land! I am weak, but thou art mighty, Lead me with thy powerful hand."