and gazing down into the perfumed gloom of the garden. At length she fancied that she heard footsteps. Whose could they be, unless Don Miguel’s? Grace retreated within her window to await developments. Don Miguel did not appear; but presently she descried a phantom-like figure ascending the flight of steps to the veranda. Could that be he? If so, he was bolder in his wooing than Grace had been prepared for. But surely that was a strange costume that he wore; nor did the unconscious harmony of the gait at all resemble the senor’s self-conscious strut. And whither was he going? It was but too evident that he was going straight to the room occupied by Miriam! This was too much for Grace’s equanimity. She stepped out of her window, and flitted with noiseless step along the veranda. The figure that she pursued entered the door of the house, and passed into the corridor traversing the wing. Grace was in time to see it cross the threshold of Miriam’s door, which stood ajar. She stole to the door, and peeped in. There was the figure; but of Miriam there was no trace. The figure slowly unfastened and threw back the hood which covered its head, at the same time turning round, so that its countenance was revealed. A torrent of black hair fell down over its shoulders. Grace uttered an involuntary exclamation. It was Miriam herself! The two gazed at each other a moment in silence. “Goodness me, dear!” said Grace at last, in a faint voice, “how you have frightened me! I saw you go in, in that dress, and I thought you were a man! How my heart beats! What is the matter?” “This is strange!” murmured the other, after a pause. “I never heard such words; and yet I seem to understand, and even to speak them. It must be a dream. What are you?” “Why, Miriam, dear! don’t you know Grace?” “Oh! you think me Miriam. No; not yet!” She raised her hands, and pressed her fingers against her temples. “But I feel her--I feel her coming! Not yet, Kamaiakan! not so soon!--Do you know him?” she suddenly asked, throwing back her hair, and fixing an eager gaze on Grace. “Know who? Kamaiakan? Why, yes----” “No, not him! The youth,--the blue-eyed,--the fair beard above his lips----” “What are you talking about? Not Harvey Freeman!” “Harvey Freeman! Ah, how sweet a name! Harvey Freeman! I shall know it now!--Tell him,” she went on, laying her hand majestically upon Grace’s shoulder, and speaking with an impressive earnestness, “that Semitzin loves him!” “Semitzin?” repeated Grace, puzzled, and beginning to feel scared. “Semitzin!” the other said, pointing to her own heart. “She loves him: not as the child Miriam loves, but with the heart and soul of a mighty princess. When he knows Semitzin, he will think of Miriam no more.” “But who is Semitzin?” inquired Grace, with a fearful curiosity. “The Princess of Tenochtitlan, and the guardian of the great treasure,” was the reply. “Good gracious! what treasure?”