In Lima the voice of the bells is lifted to avert catastrophes and to beg for mercy in times of earthquake. When the bells cease, the importance of silence is assumed instantly, as with the dropping of the wind. * * * * * A little jungle of cypress, magnolia, jasmine, pomegranate, and fig clusters about a fountain which one hears rather than sees. Contralto bird-notes seem to come from far away, like “the melodious songs of birds with yellow combs in the blessed land of Aztlan.” The garden is overgrown with passion-flowers, concealing within their petals the sacred heart and nails, even the crown of thorns. Night-blooming cereus hangs darkly above the ground-glass bells of the floriponda, so ineffably sweet after sundown. Its leaves are narcotic. (In Lima one is often given a nosegay of jasmine done up in a floriponda flower.) I sat waiting on a bench in the cloister garden. Missionary priests were showing maps to little, fluted nuns. Others in black robes and furry hats paced up and down the cloister, fondling small missals and stopping around the corner to gaze at me through the wrought-iron grill. Mediaeval life in full swing, complete from a glance of the eye to the jaunty stick cocked under the Don Juan cloak! One of the priests carried two phosphorescent beetles in a piece of sugar-cane. In this convent young girls are taught that a “wife should be loving and faithful, tolerating the defects of her husband, trying to make herself esteemed by him, to soften for him the sorrows of life, cultivating abnegation, evenness of disposition, tolerance, and sweetness. She ought never to think that the faults of her husband could excuse her own.” Very different was the Dominican convent of Santa Rosa. An illuminated manuscript hung at the portal, an absolution for those who worship here, sent by the Pope several hundred years ago. The recess in the wall was paved with cobblestones. Antique paintings of saints hung frameless above. Beside the huge doorway, heavily barred, was a turnstile in the wall, with solid partitions between the shelves to prevent a glimpse within. The staring word _Paciencia_ was written above it. Utter silence! Rosa Mercédes and I tiptoed through a narrow doorway, under the word _Modestia_. We sat on a bench in front of a wooden grill with hexagonal openings. A vague, distinctive smell drifted through it. On the other end of the bench a woman was softly sobbing. We waited half an hour or more. The week before, the birthday of Santa Rosa had been celebrated in the cloister where she lived. The week after was now being celebrated here, where she died. As I listened, there was an explosion of fire-crackers within.