Only in the morning. Before twilight there was a change. The twilight had something to do in producing it. On the two previous occasions I had mistaken the hour when beauty is accustomed to display itself in the balconies of La Puebla. Hence, perhaps, my failing to obtain a view of her who had so interested me. I determined to try again. Just as the sun's rays were turning rose-coloured upon the snow-crowned summit of Orizava, I was once more wending my way towards the Calle del Obispo. A third disappointment; but this time of a kind entirely different from the other two. I had hit the hour. The _doncella_--of whom for three days I had been thinking--three nights dreaming--was in the window where I had first seen her. One glance and I was completely disenchanted! Not that she could be called plain, or otherwise than pretty. She was more than passably so, but still only _pretty_. Where was the resplendent beauty that had so strangely, suddenly, impressed me? She might have deemed me ill-mannered, as I stood scanning her features to discover it; for I was no longer in awe--such as I expected her presence would have produced. I could now look upon her, without fear of that possibly perilous future I had been picturing to myself. After all, the thing was easy of explanation. For six weeks we had been among the hills--in cantonment--so far from Jalapa, that it was only upon rare occasions we had an opportunity of refreshing our eyes with a sight of the fair Jalapenas. We had been accustomed to see only the peasant girls of Banderilla and San Miguel Soldado, with here and there along the route the coarse unkempt squaws of Azteca. Compared with these, she of the Calle del Obispo was indeed an angel. It was the contrast that had misled me? Well, it would be a lesson of caution not to be too quick at falling in love. I had often listened to the allegement, that circumstances have much to do in producing the tender passion. This seemed to confirm it. I was not without regret, on discovering that the angel of my imagination was no more than a pretty woman,--a regret strengthened by the remembrance of three distinct promenades made for the express purpose of seeing her--to say nothing of the innumerable vagaries of pleasant conjecture, all exerted in vain. I felt a little vexed at having thrown away my sword-knot! I was scarce consoled by the reflection, that my peace of mind was no longer in peril; for I was now almost indifferent to the opinion which the lady might entertain of me. I no longer cared a straw about the reciprocity of a passion the possibility of which had been troubling me. There would be none to reciprocate. Thus chagrined, and a little by the same thought consoled, I had ceased to stare at the senorita; who certainly stared at me in surprise, and as I fancied, with some degree of indignation. My rudeness had given her reason; and I could not help perceiving it.