THE ARRIVAL AT POSADAS. 
3 
gardens, each heavy-headed creamy flower 
pouring a runnel of water from its throat to 
the ground. 
As we reached the town, suddenly it cleared. 
The setting sun turned the sky crimson, and 
made the ragged little place a city of romance. 
The pool of sunset sky was rose-red, and rose- 
red the glistening streets. The telegraph wires 
became threads of silver, on which the rain¬ 
drops hung, translucent as pink tourmalines. 
And with the rapid dusk, lights began to show 
in the houses. An open doorway gave a glimpse 
of a shadowy inner garden, and the thin sound 
of a guitar came down the street. The little 
plaza was deserted and silent, the figure of its 
central statue reflecting a gleam here and there 
from the lighted shops. Dark foliaged trees 
surrounded it, and the ground beneath them 
was slippery with bruised and fallen flowers. 
It was fast growing dark, and, with the warmer 
air, the hidden orange trees gave out gusts of 
fragrance. 
The hiss of the rain was over, and the wet 
earth stirred and breathed. We had come upon 
the poor little town in a happy moment: day¬ 
light would have shown us its tawdriness and 
poverty. But now it was mysterious and 
strange, touched with sudden poetry. The 
houses stood shadowly along the raised pave¬ 
ments, and were nothing more than washes of 
flat tone, broken by vague hollows that were 
