“I have met two or three and have found them very agreeable men. One sees them in Gijon or Santander, but rarely in our little pueblo.” The train moved on, now passing a white village cuddled in the hollow of a mountain, now by reason of a twist in the road, suddenly disclosing a glimpse of the sea overhung by bold promontories, again affording a view of a gray convent perched high on the top of a craggy height, then corn-fields again offering little variety till a picturesque procession of gipsies or a cow-cart led by a stalwart mountaineer lent life to the scene. In the course of time Bilbao was reached, a night was spent there and then the beaten path of the tourist was left behind and the unfrequented roads of Asturias were entered. From height to height, from village to hamlet, the train wound its way, until at last Tomás exclaimed, “Here we arrive,” and springing to his feet he gathered the coats, bags and umbrellas from the racks, and in a few minutes the train had moved off, leaving the five standing on the platform. Patty looked about her. “So this is it,” she said to Paulette. “And it is in ze mountains as we are hoping. Zey are on all side and how beautiful.” “It is beautiful and unlike anything I ever knew. Now where do we go? Are we to walk or ride, Tina?” “It is only a short walk to the _fonda_ where we are to stop for a few days while our house is being made ready.” “_Fonda?_ Oh, yes, that means the inn. And when we get there shall we know it by any sign?” “No, there is nothing to distinguish it to the uninitiated, but it is known to the people hereabouts as _Fonda de Victor_ on account of the man who owns it.” “Pigs! Tina, I smell them.” “You may see them, for they are quite free to run the streets, but that odor, my dear, is only oil, unrefined oil, used by the peasants for cooking.” “It is ghastly.” “You won’t mind it after a while.” “No, I believe I shall not.” Patty sniffed the air. “Now I know what it really is, it doesn’t seem so disagreeable. I recognize an olivish quality to it, and it really is not so terrific as I imagined. Such is the power of mind over matter. What’s that awful noise? Why don’t they grease their cart-wheels?” “My dear girl, they wouldn’t for the world,” Don Juan hastened to say. “Do you see those little narrow roads winding up the mountains? Suppose one cow-cart should meet another without warning what happens unless they know by the creak of the wheels that another is coming? If they did not hear how could they turn aside in the proper place?” “They sound like the hugest kind of buzzing creature. I suppose one gets used to it after a while, but I do hope and trust they do not start forth early in the morning or I foresee that my morning nap is lost.” “They do start out rather early in the morning,” Don Juan was obliged to confess, “but you will get used to them, too.” “And is this the place, this long white building? Isn’t it fascinating? though it is primitive with a vengeance.”