It was in a thoughtful mood that he rode up La Cumbre, toward the
Quinta de Esteban, late on the afternoon of Don Mario's visit.
Instead of going directly to the house as the merchant had done,
O'Reilly turned off from the road and, after tethering his horse
in a cluster of guava bushes, proceeded on foot. He did not like
Dona Isabel, nor did Dona Isabel like him. Moreover, he had a
particular reason for avoiding her to-day.

Just inside the Varona premises he paused an instant to admire the
outlook. The quinta commanded an excellent view of the Yumuri, on
the one hand, and of the town and harbor on the other; no one ever
climbed the hill from the city to gaze over into that hidden
valley without feeling a pleasurable surprise at finding it still
there. We are accustomed to think of perfect beauty as
unsubstantial, evanescent; but the Yumuri never changed, and in
that lay its supremest wonder.

Through what had once been well-tended grounds, O'Reilly made his
way to a sort of sunken garden which, in spite of neglect, still
remained the most charming nook upon the place; and there he sat
down to wait for Rosa. The hollow was effectually screened from
view by a growth of plantain, palm, orange, and tamarind trees;
over the rocky walls ran a profusion of flowering plants and
vines; in the center of the open space was an old well, its
masonry curb all but crumbled away.

When Rosa at last appeared, O'Reilly felt called upon to tell her,
somewhat dizzily, that she was beyond doubt the sweetest flower on
all the Quinta de Esteban, and since this somewhat hackneyed
remark was the boldest speech he had ever made to her, she blushed