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a space and then, turning to Annuncio, told him to bring the instrument close to the candle. Taking it from the reluctant hand of its owner, the gringo scrutinized the scratched and grimy case with half-concealed satisfaction. This done, he played, or rather wrenched from the unaccustomed strings, a few measures of Strauss’ waltz, and handing back to miserable Annuncio his ravaged pet, he said: “My friends, I am a lonely man. On my travels often I need the music to urge my tired feet. This little violin could help me much. I wish you to sell me it for company.”
    Annuncio at once and firmly demurred. Eulalia, the discontented, desired to know what the Señor would give. The Señor had but five pesos dos reales by him in silver, but this would scarce suffice to pay them for so great a boon, the life-long friendship of the violin, and so, the Señor would—ah, what cared he for gold, he wished for companionship—they had each other, but he went all alone—would give them for their charity to him, a lonely wayfarer, a lottery ticket sure to win the grand prize of 10,000 pesos, sold him by a friendly officer of the lottery Nacional whom he had saved from drowning but last month. This would he give to them, his friends.
    Annuncio thought of all the starry nights to come without the solace of a single melody, and sadly shook his head; Eulalia thought of all the glories of a coche and four white, prancing steeds, of soft laces, silver combs, and silken shawls, a house in town, servants—and smiling, nodded her assent.
    “And we will buy you many new violeens, all cherry red and shining,” whispered she to hesitating ’Nuncio, and so the bargain ended.
    The tenth of August came and early in the morning Eulalia rose to furbish up the threadbare jacket and breeches of ’Nuncio. Today began the new life, for was not the grand prize already theirs, waiting now in Esperanzes for the presentation of the winning ticket. Of a certainty. And so ’Nuncio was to trudge the ten hot, dusty miles on foot, but to return—ah, that triumphant march, had not Eulalia dreamed it over a dozen times? To return proudly borne back the weary way in a coche drawn by four white, prancing horses, even as the worthy corregidor of the town. The fertile brain of Eulalia had planned it all. They would destroy all vestige of their former poverty in one grand offering to the kindly gods of chance. Together they piled all their meager household goods—the shaky table, the rude chairs, and all the rest—into a little hillock beneath the center of the thatched roof. Their little store of maize and coffee, too, were placed thereon, and flung atop the heap lay whatever clothes they had other than those they wore. No single thing of all their former state would they retain. A little brush-wood fire smouldered without the door, and from this Eulalia, at first glimpse of returning coche and four, would take a brand and kindle that within. So they had planned and so it was to be.
    Two o’clock saw ’Nuncio, dusty and worn, enter the main street of Esperanzes, the Calle Alvarez. Easily he found the office of the Nacional and entered, smiling round the crowd of loiterers standing by the door. In one minute the prize would be his, and he the richest man in many kilometers around. He stepped to the desk and presented the worn, tattered ticket.
    “My ten thousand pesos , si gusta .”
    The clerk smiled affably.
    “The ticket is two years old, pobrecito, ” he said, “and wasn’t worth a centava even then.”
    “But the Señor said”—began ’Nuncio pleadingly.
    The clerk only nodded pleasantly toward the door and commenced to talk to the little stenographer.
    Annuncio stumbled to the sidewalk and started slowly away. He thought dazedly of his long journey home on foot and of the sad news he must tell his wife. Someone gave him a peseta and bade him get a drink. He went to a nearby store and purchased a bottle of mezcal, stupidly wondering if the Señor