the Spaniards. Across the lovely, dusty country, the faint line of blue mountains rose through the unusual mist of a foggy day, with Popocatapetl like a restful shadow beyond. Farther yet, the white lady Ixtaccihuatl lay sleeping in her dreamland of clouds. Up and down the long, shaded alleys inside the convent walls, with water running through stone aqueducts, and springing through small fountains at the side; with roses, tangled and fragrant, making hedges under the trees, and a pair of tame goats gambolling through them, — we walked for hours through the ruins of a once splendid property. The fine old building, with its long corridors and frescoed walls, had been turned into a carelessly kept barn and granary; a couple of horses had their stalls under the painted ceiling of the refectory, and in the cloisters still remained the presses and vats used for making oil and wine. Outside, an Italian terraced walk of faint pink stone surrounded a small artificial lake, reflecting a long colonnade of light columns supporting an elevated promenade above. Great clustering bushes of pink roses bent above the water at each few feet; apples, peaches, quinces, and pears grew side by
