“What a distance you have walked to gather lilies, Monica!” I said, approaching her. “Will you give me one of your stalks?” “They were gathered for the Virgin, so I cannot give away any of these,” she replied. “If you will wait here under the trees I will find one to give you.” I agreed to wait for her; then, placing the cluster she had gathered on the grass, she left me. Before long she returned with a stalk, round, polished, slender, like a pipe-stem, and crowned with its cluster of three splendid crimson flowers. When I had sufficiently thanked her and admired it, I said, “What boon are you going to ask from the Virgin, Monica, when you offer her these flowers--safety for your lover in the wars?” “No, señor; I have no offering to make, and no boon to ask. They are for my aunt; I offered to gather them for her, because--I wished to meet you here.” “To meet me, Monica--what for?” “To ask for a story, señor,” she replied, colouring and with a shy glance at my face. “Ah, we have had stories enough,” I said. “Remember poor Anita running away this morning to look for a playmate in the wet mist.” “She is a child; I am a woman.” “Then, Monica, you must have a lover who will be jealous if you listen to stories from a stranger's lips in this lonely spot.” “No person will ever know that I met you here,” she returned--so bashful, yet so persistent. “I have forgotten all my stories,” I said. “Then, señor, I will go and find you another _ramo_ of lilies while you think of one to tell me.” “No,” I said, “you must get no more lilies for me. Look, I will give you back these you gave me.” And, saying that, I fastened them in her black hair, where by contrast they looked very splendid, and gave the girl a new grace. “Ah, Monica, they make you look too pretty--let me take them out again.” But she would not have them taken. “I will leave you now to think of a story for me,” she said, blushing and turning away. Then I took her hands and made her face me. “Listen, Monica,” I said. “Do you know that these lilies are full of strange magic? See how crimson they are; that is the colour of passion, for they have been steeped in passion, and turn my heart to fire. If you bring me any more of them, Monica, I shall tell you a story that will make you tremble with fear--tremble like the willow-leaves and turn pale as the mist over the Yí.” She smiled at my words; it was like a ray of sunlight falling through the foliage on her face. Then, in a voice that was almost a whisper, she said, “What will the story be about, señor? Tell me, then I shall know whether to gather lilies for you or not.” “It will be about a stranger meeting a sweet, pale girl standing under the trees, her dark eyes cast down, and red lilies in her hand; and how she asked him for a story, but he could speak to her of nothing but love, love, love.”