curred, toil self-imposed, and reckless adventure in unknown lands, once felt, becomes a part of one's very being, and never fully loses its influence while life remains.
Next day my fair friend showed me where to fish for the largest trout, helped me with her own white hands to prepare the tackle, and took part with us in the sport. A few more hours of swinging in the hammock, the last cigarrito was smoked, the last story told, and reluctantly I bade my kind friends of the valley of San Andreas good-by, beneath the laurel-and the buckeye-trees, and, mounting old Don Benito, galloped away toward the Golden City.
We are always happier for having been happy once; and I have lived longer, and I hope better, and enjoyed life more, for the recollection of that first paseár to the valley of San Andreas. And here, as we meet again to-night, the pleasant memory comes back to us and we talk it over once again with keenest satisfaction. In taking leave of our fair young friend I tell her that I start for Mexico in a few days for a long paseár under tropic skies; and, as we ride away in the gloaming of the evening, she bows gravely, and, in the soft Castilian tongue, as is the custom of the people in Spanish lands, bids me "Adios, Amigo!" adding, with a trace of something more than mere conventional politeness in her voice, "And the peace of God be with you!"
