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 laugh, though a tear quickly followed, when she described how her brother translated the cooking receipts in Harper's Bazar, and then requested her to have American dishes concocted from them; what moments of despair she had over the unfamiliar compounds, and what horrible "messes" sometimes resulted from the imperfectly understood translations.

This devotion of brother to sister often recalled a similar experience in my own life. The ideal José Maria was my brother William, who had made a like idol of me. His was then a newly made grave, and I had only time to place a flower upon it before beginning the journey to old Mexico. While I had stepped across the boundary line of ages and was endeavoring to decipher the hieroglyphics of an Aztec civilization, which were stamped upon every form and feature that I saw, here I stood face to face with a repetition of my own life. It was but following the promptings of a woman's heart to believe in these kind strangers and to cherish their friendship.

In due time I had gathered about me many kind and congenial friends, who vied with each other in contributing to my happiness. One of these, Doña Pomposita R——, without knowing my language, began to instruct me in her own. Winks, blinks, and shrugs did the most of it: but come what would, she never gave up until everything was clear. We sat in the patio on the afternoon of her first visit, and among other things was her determination that we should converse about Don Quixote, she being familiar with his story in the original and I in my own tongue. Many of the humorous adventures of the Don were called up by her in the most amusing manner. In rapid succession she mentioned the men with their "pack-staves," the "wine-bags," and was finally overcome with laughter as she said that our grand old house reminded her of the isle of Barataria, where Sancho Panza was governor.

She then sang in a low, sweet tone many operatic airs, among them, "Then You'll Remember Me," and others equally familiar, possessing an added charm in the sweet Spanish. Near night-fall she arose to go home, saying Pancho — meaning her husband — would soon be