At the foot of the two or three steps that led to the veranda where I was sitting, stood a man and a woman--evidently Mexicans--as queer a couple as it had ever been my fortune to meet. The man was apparently about sixty years of age, taller than most of his race, still stalwart and erect and, despite his years, a handsome fellow of his type. He carried his head as haughtily as might an hidalgo of Old Spain. His picturesque costume was bedecked with finery which, faded though it was, indicated the garb of a Mexican of the higher caste. His swarthy face was shaded by an ornate sombrero, from beneath which flashed piercing, fiery eyes that would have compelled attention anywhere. A broad silk sash encircled his waist, and artistically draped over his shoulder were the graceful folds of a bright, many-colored _serape_. Through the sash was thrust the inevitable murderous-looking _cuchillo_--the symbol of his individuality and a declaration of that belief in personal responsibility which is as inseparable from the hot Latin blood as though it were dependent upon a special corpuscle. Unlike her companion, the woman presented a figure that was pathetic, rather than picturesque, although she too showed in her apparel something of the fondness for color and tinsel that characterizes her race. She appeared to be old--much older than her companion, although appearances are very deceptive in judging the age of women of the Latin races. They mature young, and their youth and beauty begin to fade very early, so early that at a period when the woman of fair Anglo-Saxon blood is yet in her prime, her darker-skinned sister is already old and wrinkled. The old crone--for so she appeared--was bent and withered, with hair as white as human hair ever becomes. Her face was fearfully disfigured by smallpox, that loathsome disease which had become a curse to her people. As she raised her eyes towards me, I noted with something of a shock that she was totally blind--the dull and expressionless eyes showed that only too plainly. Used as I was to the sight of human misery and helplessness, there was something in the poor old woman’s face that impressed me. “_Buenos tardes, Señor Caballero_,” again said the man, with a polite bow. “_Comprende V. Espanol?_” “_Muy poco_--very little--_Señor_,” I replied. “Then will I speak the tongue of the _Americanos_, though I speak it not well,” he continued. “I hope _el Señor_ he is not disturb in his smoke of the evening by the speaking to him.” “Not at all, Sir,” I answered politely. “Then, maybe, it is not too free to ask _el Señor_ if he will have the fortune told.” “Oh, you are a fortune teller, eh?” The Mexican raised his head proudly.