himself up. So handsome a man could surely be forgiven a broken
omelette and some charcoal, if only for the sake of his gay blue
eyes, his curling brown hair, and his devil-may-care air of
prosperity. He looked at the Senorita and laughed in the manner of
a man who had never yet failed to "get on" with women. He folded
his arms with fine, open gestures, and stood looking with approving
nods upon his own handiwork. He was without the shadow of the
trailing vine which runs riot over bamboo trelliswork in front of
the Venta, affording a much needed shade in this the sunniest spot
in all Majorca, and the fierce sun beat down upon his face, which
was tanned a deep, healthy brown. He was clad almost in white; for
his trousers were of canvas, his shirt of spotless linen. Round his
waist he wore the usual Spanish faja or bright red cloth. He was
consciously picturesque, and withal so natural, so good-natured, so
astonishingly optimistic, as to be quite inoffensive in his child-
like conceit.

The Venta of the Moor's Mill stands, as many know, at the northern
end of the Val D'Erraha, looking down upon the broader valley,
through which runs the high road from Palma to Valdemosa. The city
of Palma, itself, is only a few miles away, for such as know the
mountain path. Few customers come this way, and the actual trade of
the Venta is small. Some day a German doctor will start a nerve-
healing establishment here, with a table d'hote at six o'clock, and
every opportunity for practising the minor virtues--and the Valley
of Repose will be the Valley of Repose no longer.

"Ah! It is a good omelette," said the host of the Venta, as Miss
Cheyne took up her fork. "Though I have not always been a cook, nor
yet an innkeeper."