“PATTY CREPT BEHIND THE HEDGE AND WAITED.”

# THE
GLAD LADY

BY

AMY E. BLANCHARD
Author of “A Journey of Joy,” “Wits’ End,” etc.

BOSTON
DANA ESTES & COMPANY
PUBLISHERS

Copyright, 1910,
By Dana Estes & Company

All rights reserved

Presswork by
THE COLONIAL PRESS
C. H. Simonds & Co., Boston, U.S.A.

TO
DOÑA MARTINA AND DON JUAN,
THOSE WELL-LOVED FRIENDS WHO HAVE MADE SPAIN
FOR ME A HAPPY MEMORY, I DEDICATE THIS STORY

A. E. B.

## CONTENTS

CHAPTER |  | PAGE
I. | The Party Arrives | 9
II. | A Mountain Town | 21
III. | The Walk | 35
IV. | Antiquities | 48
V. | My Old Kentucky Home | 61
VI. | The Day of San Juan | 76
VII. | The Inxanos | 90
VIII. | A Romeria | 105
IX. | Only a Donkey | 119
X. | Santa Maria Marina | 133
XI. | Gipsies | 148
XII. | Tomás Tells | 163
XIII. | The Long White Road | 178
XIV. | The Silver Merchant | 192
XV. | A Lonely Hill | 206
XVI. | By Reason of Saint Anthony | 221
XVII. | Patty is Puzzled | 235
XVIII. | Waiting | 249
XIX. | Don Felipe’s Surprise | 264
XX. | The Three Wishes | 281

## LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

PAGE
“Patty crept behind the hedge and waited” (page 236) | Frontispiece
“‘He says I am a glad lady’” | 33
“‘Don’t you get homesick?’” | 70
“Perdita” | 86
“‘What are you beating that donkey for?’” | 120
“‘At your feet, ladies’” | 186
“‘Glad Lady!’” | 286

## THE GLAD LADY

## CHAPTER I

### THE PARTY ARRIVES

It was at San Sebastian that the various members of the party became an integral. When separated they were quite as dissimilar as the constituent parts of certain chemical combinations. The company was headed by Dr. Juan Estradas who, when a lad, had rushed to the war in Cuba, had later gone to the United States to study medicine and had there married an American girl, known in this tale as Doña Martina. Number three is represented by Don Tomás, the doctor’s younger brother, who, having always remained upon Spanish soil, spoke no language but Castilian, unless the two expressions, “Shocking” and “Awful badth form,” may be said to display some knowledge of English. Number four may be discerned in the person of Miss Patience Blake, commonly known as Patty, the pretty sister of Doña Martina. A schoolmate of Miss Patty’s, one Paulette Delambre, completes the number.

The two girls had just arrived from a convent in France, where they had been learning various branches supposed to be useful to young ladies: a little embroidery, some music and water-color sketching; to these, in Patty’s case, was added French. Neither girl knew more than three words of Spanish and generally addressed one another in French, although Paulette spoke English fairly well. They had but just reached their hotel, Patty in a heated frame of mind because the customs officers at Irun had kept them so long over their luggage that they had nearly missed their train, and furthermore had questioned the presence of so many new frocks.

“They actually assailed my veracity,” she explained to her sister, “and it didn’t help a bit when some one said that probably they thought we were dressmakers. Do we look like dressmakers, I want to know? I wish we had never seen your stupid old Spain.”

She turned to Don Tomás, who simply beamed upon her, not understanding a word she said. But seeing a fitting occasion to air his English, he remarked, “Shocking! Awful badth form.” Then every one laughed, which cleared the air, and the five entered their hotel in better spirits.

Patty’s first act, after reaching her room, was to take off her hat and fluff out her dark hair; it was Paulette who displayed rings of red gold about her forehead and whose eyes were blue. “They always take me for the French one,” remarked Patty, “and Paulette is always supposed to be the American by everyone but her own countrymen. It is rather convenient sometimes, for I hear very free criticisms of things United States. By the way, Tina, you haven’t told us one word about your plans. You simply wrote that we were to spend the summer in the north of Spain and that I needn’t be afraid of melting. You’ve prinked enough, Polly, let me come.”

“We shall stay for a day or two in San Sebastian,” replied Doña Martina, “and then we shall go further along the coast to a place in the mountains or by the sea, whichever you choose to say. It is one of the old family houses of the Estradas, and the doctor thinks it will be an ideal spot to summer in. We have spent a little time there and he is so enthusiastic that I have become so, too. I hope you all will like it, Patty.”

Patty looked over her shoulder rather ruefully. “What in the world can we find to do? Don’t tell me I shall not have a chance to air my Paris frocks.”

“That is a small consideration,” said her sister. “We shall have such air as you never breathed. We shall see such scenery as will delight your soul, and we shall do things we never did before.”

“What things?” inquired Patty, pulling down her belt and trying to look at the back of her trim figure.

“Oh, we shall have a mountain pony or a burro to take us junketing around to all the neighboring villages; we shall go to all the fiestas, make a trip to Covadonga; visit all the old churches and monasteries; go fishing; take a daily dip in the sea if we like, and—What more do you want, Patty?”

“Men,” replied Patty sententiously.

“Well, there is Tomás.”

“I didn’t say a man, nor the man; I said men. One man won’t go around when there are two girls.”

“You want too much,” replied her sister. “However, I can’t say what you may find before the summer is over. I’ll venture to say if there is a desirable man within a radius of fifty miles he will pop out of a cave or from the sea when you come in sight; it is always that way.”

Patty laughed. “Tell me about Don Tomás.”

“I wrote to you all I know about him. Juan says he is a single-hearted unspoiled boy. Remember, Patty, that I have made my brother-in-law’s acquaintance only within the last few days, and Juan had not seen him for ten years till about a month ago. He was only fourteen when his brother left home.”

“So he is twenty-four now. He is rather nice looking, but I didn’t know Spaniards ever had red hair. He might be an Irishman, or anything. I am disappointed that he hasn’t melting dark eyes and shining black hair.”

“I should think you would like a contrast. You see dark eyes and hair every time you look in the glass, and that is often enough, heaven knows.”

“You needn’t laugh, Polly,” said Patty, turning to Paulette, who showed her appreciation of this last remark by a gay little giggle. “There is one thing consoling about it: he may like contrasts, and unless he is already satiated with dark Spanish types he perchance will admire little Patty Blake.”

“He hasn’t a penny; at least he has very little,” returned Doña Martina quickly.

“That wouldn’t prevent his admiring me,” retorted Patty calmly. “I didn’t say I wanted to marry him offhand.”

“You are a fleert incorrigible,” said Paulette, coming into the conversation.

“I am sure I don’t know where you have made your observations, surely not at the convent,” Patty remarked.

“I use my ear, not my eye alone, and I am sorree for zat nice young man.”

“Oho!” Patty turned to look at her quizzically. “I see I must be polishing up my armor. Come on, girls, let us go down. Juan told us not to be too long, and we want to see what we can of the outside world before we go into retreat.”

“You talk as if you were going back to the convent,” said her sister. “You know it will not be like that. Weren’t you happy there, Patty?” She put her arm affectionately across her sister’s shoulder.

“Oh, yes, happy enough, but one can get tired even of a good thing. I am glad not to be going back.”

“I wish we could stay a long time here at San Sebastian, if you would like that,” returned her sister wistfully, “but you know we aren’t rich, Patty, and this is a very expensive place for persons of our means.”

“Bless you, honey,” whispered Patty giving her a hug; “I’m only fooling, Tina. I don’t really care a rap about staying. I am sure it will be far nicer, much more romantic, and distinctly more interesting to go to that queer mountain place that nobody ever hears about much less goes to. Don’t mind my nonsense; I am only showing off before Polly. Don’t you think she is rather nice considering that she has money? Would you ever suspect it?”

“She seems very nice, and, no, I shouldn’t suspect. One doesn’t usually expect a fact of that kind to be very apparent in one who is truly a lady, you know.”

“Of course. I know that, but she hasn’t any people, you see, and doesn’t come of the aristocracy. She has a stuffy old shopkeeping uncle or guardian or something of that kind, but I never heard her speak of anyone else belonging to her. She was so delighted when you said she might come. She is the nicest French girl of the whole bunch and there were plenty to choose from at the convent. I find, Tina, that it doesn’t make much difference about nationality: it is just individuals.”

“I’ve found that out, too,” responded Doña Martina, “otherwise I should never have married Juan.”

“He is a dear,” Patty agreed, “so generous and courteous, and the soul of honor.”

“And he is so constant and faithful, dear soul. Indeed, Patty, I might have gone far afield in many a country and never have met a finer man.”

“So glad you’re pleased, dear,” returned Patty lightly. “Now, if you are ready, let us go down and see the world, the flesh, and the devil.”

“The world is out on the Esplanade; there is plenty of flesh there, too, you will find, while, to quote Emerson, ‘even the dear old devil is not far off.’”

Patty laughed and the sisters returned to the room where they had left Paulette, then the three descended to the corridor to find Don Juan and his brother pacing up and down talking earnestly and with many gestures. “Are they quarrelling already?” asked Patty, pausing on the lower step and looking after the two men.

“Quarrelling? No, of course not,” Doña Martina answered with a smile. “That is only a little way they have when they are interested. It may be only the weather of which they are talking.”

“Never,” declared Patty. “I am enthusiastic myself, but I never could get up such an intensity of expression, such violence of action over such a simple matter as the weather.”

“You’re not a Spaniard,” returned her sister.

“Let us ask them the subject of their discourse and settle it at once,” proposed Patty; “it would be interesting to know.”

They advanced toward the two men, who now hurried forward with apologies for not having seen them sooner.

“And what were you talking about that you couldn’t see us?” Patty asked Don Juan.

“What? Let me see, what. Simple matters enough; of what we may be having for luncheon, of the report that we shall have rain to-night.”

Doña Martina brought her hands softly together. “What did I tell you?” she exclaimed with a nod toward her sister. “I said it might be the weather.”

“Yes, but the other subject: luncheon, warranted any amount of excitement,” returned Patty as they all turned toward the dining-room.

An hour later the party was included in the throng which promenaded the Esplanade. To Patty’s share fell Don Tomás as escort. “It is very beautiful,” said the girl with a wave of the hand toward the rock-encircled harbor.

“Shocking,” replied Don Tomás with a desire to say something his companion could understand.

“Oh, no, not at all.” Patty turned to speak to her sister. “Come here, Tina, and walk with us; we need a translator.”

Doña Martina joined the two.

“Tell him,” said Patty, “that I will teach him English if he will teach me Spanish.”

Her sister bent a searching look upon the girl’s innocently grave face. “Very well,” she said. “He agrees,” she went on after a few words in Spanish to her brother-in-law.

“Is he delighted at my gracious suggestion? He ought to be.”

“Why, any more than you?”

“Because he is a man.”

“That is no reason.”

“It is to me. All right, Tina, you may go back to your husband. We shall get along now, no doubt, since he knows what is expected of him.”

“I shall walk with you two,” said Doña Martina firmly. “You are not to be trusted.”

“Oh nonsense! You can keep your stern eye upon us all you like, but I shall be embarrassed if you are listening to my faltering tongue lisping in Castilian. Go back or Juan will be jealous.”

“What a silly speech. However, I will go because I want to, and because it is reasonable to believe you will get on better if I am not listening.”

In a few minutes there was low laughter heard from the two, who plunged into a halting conversation, and it was evident that the progress was pleasant if not rapid.

It was a gay scene. Representatives from all parts of the world joined in the crowd which watched the bathers. Nurse-maids with their charges, Spanish girls wearing mantillas, vendors of all sorts, newsboys, American tourists, Englishmen, Frenchmen, Moors, matadors, Spanish dons, fat old ladies puffing along with waddling poodles, fat old men with the visible expression of having sacrificed normal proportions to good living, wicked looking cavaliers with black moustachios, and in their eyes the smouldering flames of burnt-out fires, prattling children, innocent school-girls with their governesses, romping school-boys passed and repassed in endless parade. It was, as Patty said, a corner of the universe where the world, the flesh and the devil met.

“And what did you learn from Tomás?” asked Don Juan when they had returned.

“I learned that una señorita es maravillosa.”

“And he?”

“Oh, he learned, ‘the aith of a ’orse.’”

“Now, Patty,” put in her sister.

“Truly, Tina, he did.”

“And nothing more?”

“Ask him,” said Patty, walking away.

Her sister followed. “Patty, I warned you that he has not a penny, not a perrono.”

“Did I say I wanted his perronos or even pesetas?”

“No, but—”

“What?”

“You mustn’t try to ensnare him.”

“Do you care more for him than for me?”

“Of course not, but I want to protect him.”

“I thought you meant to be my chaperon. How do you know but that I am the one who needs protection?”

“I know you better than I do him.”

“Then, my dear, wait till you know him better before you take him under your sheltering wing. He may be a wolf in sheep’s clothing, and I an innocent lamb for all you know.”

“He is a single-hearted, unspoiled boy, as I told you, not one of those blasé creatures you might find in Madrid or Paris, and you are not to make him unhappy.”

“Don’t you want me to have a good time?”

“Not at the expense of someone else. I didn’t think you were hard-hearted, Patty.”

“And all this because I taught him to say ‘the aith of a ’orse.’” Patty spoke in an injured tone.

“If I could be sure that were all.”

“Oh, my dear, would you have me confine his English to that sentence only? When he really wants to learn must he stop there? and must I let him teach me nice things in Spanish while he learns only Ollendorf English? I certainly would be hard-hearted if I tried to be as mean as that. Trust the young man to take care of himself. As for me, like the pussy cat in the nursery rhyme, ‘if you don’t hurt her she’ll do you no harm.’ Now, Tina, dear, don’t get into agonies over me. I’m not as dreadful as I appear upon first sight, and your dear little red-headed Tomás shall not break his nice warm Spanish heart. I’ll be a good girl, Tina, truly and—No I won’t tell you that, it would be too great a blow to my self-esteem if you should agree with me. I’ll tell Polly. Where is she?”

What she had to tell Paulette Tina did not find out, but whatever it was, certain it appeared that Paulette’s eyes fell before a stolen glance Tomás gave her as she took her seat opposite him at table that evening.

## CHAPTER II

### A MOUNTAIN TOWN

“Corn-fields!” cried Patty, looking from the window as the train proceeded on its way toward Bilbao. “We might almost think it our native land.”

“Not with a tenth century monastery in sight,” returned her sister.

“Quite true, but I hadn’t seen the tenth century monastery when I spoke. Those are surely fig trees. Where corn and apples grow can there be figs? At least one doesn’t learn from our geographies that they flourish together.”

“They do here,” Don Juan told her. “You must prepare to have more than one surprise, hermana mia.”

“I’m beginning to get them. What gorgeous views. Spain is fine. I imagined it a dry and arid plain with a weazened tree sticking up once in a while out of the dust.”

“It isn’t all like this,” her sister admitted, “but you will have to confess that Asturias is wonderful.”

“And Asturians?” with a sly glance at Tomás.

Doña Martina frowned and Patty laughed gleefully, while Tomás looked from one to the other interrogatively. “She is a naughty child,” Doña Martina told him in his own language.

“She is a charming one nevertheless,” returned Tomás in the same tongue.

“What does deleitosa mean?” asked Patty, rapidly turning over the leaves of the small dictionary she carried.

“It is not necessary to know,” replied Doña Martina, in dignified reproof.

“You look so funny when you purse up your lips that way, Tina,” said Patty, “exactly as you used when I was a little girl and would pick green gooseberries from the bushes. You have always thought you must be the one to bring me to task, being ten years older. Oh, I have found the word. Now, what must I say? Gracias señor. Me gusto mucho. Is that right, Juan?” She turned to her brother-in-law, who smiled an indulgent affirmative.

“I shall beat you with my Spanish, Polly,” Patty went on, “and I venture to say I shall learn it before Don Tomás does English. I rather hope I may, for it is so funny to hear him say goomans for women, and moosilahga for mucilage. However, I wish there were a language we both knew and which you didn’t, Tina, then we certainly would enjoy ourselves.”

“Do not listen to her, Doña Martina,” said Paulette, “she does but to tease you.”

“I do but to look out the window at present,” said Patty. “See those stunning looking men. I should say they were Englishmen.”

“They probably are,” Don Juan told her. “There are quite a number connected with the mines in northern Spain. These may be mining engineers.”

“Oh!” Patty watched the three well set up figures approaching the train from the small station at which they had just stopped. “Do you know any of them, Juan?” she asked.

“I have met two or three and have found them very agreeable men. One sees them in Gijon or Santander, but rarely in our little pueblo.”

The train moved on, now passing a white village cuddled in the hollow of a mountain, now by reason of a twist in the road, suddenly disclosing a glimpse of the sea overhung by bold promontories, again affording a view of a gray convent perched high on the top of a craggy height, then corn-fields again offering little variety till a picturesque procession of gipsies or a cow-cart led by a stalwart mountaineer lent life to the scene.

In the course of time Bilbao was reached, a night was spent there and then the beaten path of the tourist was left behind and the unfrequented roads of Asturias were entered. From height to height, from village to hamlet, the train wound its way, until at last Tomás exclaimed, “Here we arrive,” and springing to his feet he gathered the coats, bags and umbrellas from the racks, and in a few minutes the train had moved off, leaving the five standing on the platform.

Patty looked about her. “So this is it,” she said to Paulette.

“And it is in ze mountains as we are hoping. Zey are on all side and how beautiful.”

“It is beautiful and unlike anything I ever knew. Now where do we go? Are we to walk or ride, Tina?”

“It is only a short walk to the fonda where we are to stop for a few days while our house is being made ready.”

“Fonda? Oh, yes, that means the inn. And when we get there shall we know it by any sign?”

“No, there is nothing to distinguish it to the uninitiated, but it is known to the people hereabouts as Fonda de Victor on account of the man who owns it.”

“Pigs! Tina, I smell them.”

“You may see them, for they are quite free to run the streets, but that odor, my dear, is only oil, unrefined oil, used by the peasants for cooking.”

“It is ghastly.”

“You won’t mind it after a while.”

“No, I believe I shall not.” Patty sniffed the air. “Now I know what it really is, it doesn’t seem so disagreeable. I recognize an olivish quality to it, and it really is not so terrific as I imagined. Such is the power of mind over matter. What’s that awful noise? Why don’t they grease their cart-wheels?”

“My dear girl, they wouldn’t for the world,” Don Juan hastened to say. “Do you see those little narrow roads winding up the mountains? Suppose one cow-cart should meet another without warning what happens unless they know by the creak of the wheels that another is coming? If they did not hear how could they turn aside in the proper place?”

“They sound like the hugest kind of buzzing creature. I suppose one gets used to it after a while, but I do hope and trust they do not start forth early in the morning or I foresee that my morning nap is lost.”

“They do start out rather early in the morning,” Don Juan was obliged to confess, “but you will get used to them, too.”

“And is this the place, this long white building? Isn’t it fascinating? though it is primitive with a vengeance.”

A dark-eyed, buxom woman came hurrying out to meet them with many expressions of welcome, and a timid little handmaid hovered in the background, all interest to see the Inglesas and their friend, Mlle. Delambre, less a person of importance. The little fonda was scrupulously clean, the board floors scrubbed white, though innocent of rug or carpet, the beds were soft, the home-spun linen fresh and sweet-smelling, the white-washed walls showed no mark nor speck. The small mirador faced the plaza, at once the center of the town and the market-place. Here, too, took place any special event, such as a comedia or a dance. Under the wide-branched tree on one side was the village fountain, whose constantly flowing stream sang a little tune in a pleasant tinkle which told of clear cold mountain sources from which the town was abundantly supplied. There was scarce a cessation of comings and goings from the fountain. Slim girls with buckets poised on their heads, old women who adjusted their circular pads carefully before lifting their water jar to its place, tiny children who carried their burdens unsteadily, but who, to imitate their elders, before filling their small pails, took up a handful of sand to scrub the vessel outside and in, that it might always be bright and shining. A fine odor of newly baked loaves came from the bakery opposite and above the tap-tap of the shoemaker upon his last arose his clear song in some weird Asturian ballad. Beyond all, against the bluest of skies, were the mountains.

Patty leaned her elbows upon the railing of the mirador and viewed it all.

“How do you like it?” asked Paulette, coming and putting an arm around her friend.

“Immensely. And you?”

“It is delightful. How primitive! How rural!”

“Rural indeed. See that lordly pig grunting around below there, and turkeys as I live, not to mention a host of chickens and, oh, the dogs, what a company of them. I see where those stale biscuits go, the ones we bought on our way here and couldn’t eat. Don’t you like these little balconies with the flowers swinging from them? I hope there are balconies at Juan’s house. There must be, I suppose, for all Spanish houses seem to have them.”

“Where are we to hang our frocks?”

“Oh, dear, where indeed? On the floor, I reckon. We’d better not unpack much, only what we shall need for a few days. Tina hopes we can leave by the end of the week. It is too bad we could not go at once to the house, but Juan says this is the best fonda about and it is something of a novelty to stay here.”

“What must the others be?”

“I can’t imagine, though there is nothing to complain of here. I am sure it was not much better at the convent. We lack clothes presses, to be sure. They say the food is good, all oil, I suppose judging from the odors now arising.”

A gentle tap at the door interrupted them. “Á comer,” said the little maid to whom they opened.

“What do you suppose that means?” said Patty looking at Paulette.

“Dinner, perhaps.”

Patty went through the motions of eating, looking inquiringly at Consuelo who, though amused, nodded gravely and beckoned them to follow her.

They found Doña Martina, Don Juan and Tomás seated at a long table where there were two other guests, one a viajante or traveling man, the other Patty concluded to be an Englishman. Nothing could be more courteously polite than the viajante. “He ate with his knife yet his attentions to us might put a courtier to the blush,” Doña Martina said afterward.

Little Consuelo ran hither and thither, so anxious for the Inglesas to be pleased that she watched every mouthful they ate with an absorbed interest. “As if,” said Patty, “the entire foundations of the kingdom would totter if we failed to do justice to each dish.”

The comedor was the room in which first-class guests alone were served. Below stairs in the wine shop were tables for the second and third class meals, these varying in quality according to the price. Matilda herself, supervised all. Her loud though kindly voice and her quick step were heard when one passed near the kitchen, and woe be to the vaquero who might royster too uproariously.

The viajante conversed affably with Don Juan. The Englishman made a single remark to Don Tomás which, not being understood caused a lapse into silence on the part of the Britisher. “I knew he was English,” said Patty in a low voice to her sister as the young man’s tall athletic figure disappeared in the doorway. “I couldn’t be mistaken. He is one of those whom we saw getting on the train at Llanes I am sure. One of the kind of Englishman whose chief ambition in life seems to be to look more bored than any other Englishman. I wonder why he didn’t vouchsafe a remark to some of us who could speak his own language.”

“Well, you see he was at the other end of the table. Juan was speaking Spanish to the viajante, Tomás and I were conversing in the same language while you and Paulette were chattering in French.”

“What’s he doing in Spain if he doesn’t speak Spanish?”

“The same thing that you are doing, perhaps.”

Patty laughed at the retort. “Never mind, I shall speak only in English to-morrow and then we shall see. Why don’t you chide me, Tina? Reproof is in order.”

“Anything to keep you from luring Tomás into your toils.”

“Oh, Tomás!” Patty gave a glance in that young man’s direction. “Of course he counts, too. I shall not be afraid of having to talk to both. Paulette can have the traveling gentleman. Can you and Juan go with us to hunt up a drug store? There are some things we want. I suppose there is one.”

“I really don’t know, but I will ask Juan.”

“Meantime I will have a lesson from Tomás, for I do not mean to remain in ignorance of things I might know when it depends upon a little study to gain the knowledge.”

As they left the fonda to follow the long white road for a short distance they observed the Englishman pacing up and down, taking the solace of his pipe. “I know he is lonely, poor fellow,” remarked Patty. “I don’t suppose Juan could invite him to go with us, could he?”

“Juan is not going with us; he has some letters to write,” said Doña Martina shortly.

“Did he tell you where to find the drug store?”

“Yes, it is in the jail building.”

“Heavens! what a combination. Healing for bodily ills on one hand and punishment on the other. And where is Tomás?”

“He is helping Juan.”

“Then we go alone, do we? Is it safe?”

“Do you imagine that bandits are going to descend upon us from the mountains? You couldn’t be safer in your own room, and you’re far safer than you would be at home. Come along, Patty, and don’t be so silly.”

“You see Paulette and I have been so used to being Argus-eyed by a sister we don’t dare move without one.”

“And am I not sister enough?”

“Oh, well, yes, but I can’t get accustomed to your being a proper chaperon although you have tried to serve in that capacity ever since I was born. You don’t tell me this is the place? Why, it looks like a plain stone house.”

“Yes, I am sure this is the place.”

“But there is no light.”

“We will knock.” After some banging on the door they heard footsteps coming down the stairs, keys jingled and a bolt was drawn back, then a man appeared, candle in hand. Evidently trade was not so brisk as to require the constant presence of the druggist in the shop. He ushered them into a queer little place, fumbled sleepily around among the shelves and finally produced the articles they wanted, the door was locked and bolted after them and they returned to the fonda. The whiff of a pipe and the appearance of a figure which stepped out of the shadow told them that the Englishman was following.

“I do believe he came behind us all the way,” whispered Patty, “just to see that no harm befell us. That was rather nice, I think.”

“It was entirely unnecessary,” replied her sister, “and I am not sure but that it was impertinent.”

“Oh, Tina. I don’t believe that, do you, Paulette?”

“It maybe was an impertinence,” said Paulette after a little hesitation.

“Oh bless me! How suspicious you are. Of course it would necessarily be so in your country,” returned Patty annoyed at this construction. “For my part I think it was a nice knightly thing to do. Quite like an American and a Southerner at that.”

“Oh, dear me, Patty,” Doña Martina began, “if you begin to create knights in this free and easy style I don’t know where you will land. Give you a bone and you will construct a mastodon any time.”

“A little imagination is an excellent thing to have in the family,” retorted Patty. “It comes in very handily sometimes. I adore my imagination; I wouldn’t be without it for the world. You and Paulette are of the earth. My golden flower of knighthood may be nothing but a yellow primrose on the river’s brim to you, but oh, my heart, who knows what it may prove to be in my eyes.”

“‘HE SAYS I AM A GLAD LADY.’”

“It may prove to be an inexpressible bore,” replied her sister. “There come Tomás and Juan to meet us.”

“I’m glad of it. Now we can take a longer walk in this lovely air. I feel the need of it after two days of travel.”

The party, reinforced by Don Juan and his brother, wandered up the long windings of the little village, white in the starlight. From over the high walls of the gardens stole sweet odors, the tinkle of a mandolin and the gay jangle of a tambourine came from the patio of a small house. A couple of strolling youths did not cease their song as they passed, and when the party paused at the little bridge which spanned a small stream leaping over its pebbly bed, they could distinguish a murmur underlying the more insistent sounds.

“Me gusta mucho,” said Patty turning to Tomás.

“Me alegro infinito,” said Paulette, and Patty found that Paulette likewise sought to take advantage of opportunities, and that upon the garden of her understanding were also falling the seeds of knowledge.

Yet so merry was Patty that Tomás with a slow striving for English words, said, “You are always a gladth ladthy, Miss Pattee.”

Patty laughed. “Do you hear what your brother calls me, Juan?” she asked. “He says I am a glad lady.”

“An excellent name for you,” Don Juan responded.

“It suits her exactly, Tomás,” agreed Doña Martina.

“She is always to laugh herself,” explained Tomás. “She is so joyful.”

## CHAPTER III

### THE WALK

The next day the family dined alone. The viajante with his big wagon drawn by sturdy mules with gay trappings and jangling bells, had departed, while the smoke of the Englishman’s pipe was no longer wafted upon the air. “It seems sort of lonely,” remarked Patty, “and I didn’t have a chance to see my knight gallop off wearing my gage upon his sleeve.”

“Good reason why,” said Doña Martina: “he went by train, and he would have looked well, wouldn’t he, wearing a gage upon his sleeve? with that bored look of his.”

Patty sighed melodramatically. “I shall have to give all my attention to Tomás then,” she said, “a good thing for my Spanish, perhaps. I have a new incentive, for I believe Paulette is trying to get ahead of me; she reels off her sentences with an aplomb positively appalling. I’ve been devoting myself to those dreadful verbs, you see, while she has been increasing her vocabulary. Shall I ever compass Ser and Estar, do you believe?”

“I shouldn’t try to at once. Much better adopt Paulette’s method.”

“So I shall from henceforth, and I’ll plunge in boldly without waiting to be exact. I know it is the best way, but I am so proud and conscientious, you know.”

“I am aware of the pride, but I have yet to be impressed by the conscientiousness.”

“You are too mean for words, Tina. To think that you should enjoy abusing your poor little sister in the way that you do is dreadful, and when she has just escaped from the rigors of a convent too.”

“My poor little sister thrives under the abuse, it seems.”

“You always take everyone’s part against me. One would suppose, for example, that Tomás was your sure enough brother and I only your sister-in-law.”

Doña Martina was silent for a moment, feeling there was some truth in the remark. “Well, you see,” she began, “I don’t want you to throw yourself away on a poor man like Tomás. I am afraid you would not be happy if you married him.”

“I’m not marrying him.”

“You might.”

“Well, suppose I should. I’m sure we could get along. Haven’t you been telling me that one can rent a nice little house for forty dollars a year, hire a servant for three or four dollars a month and buy a donkey for seven? What more could one ask? It is a paradise for poor people from your own account. Why shouldn’t I settle down here, too, to a love-in-a-cottage existence? I should think you would be delighted to have me for a neighbor.”

“Oh, Patty dear, so I should.” Her sister came over and took the girl’s face between her hands. “I never know when you are serious, dear. You talk so much nonsense. If you were really to fall in love, you two, and could be happy living that way, why of course—”

Patty laughed gleefully. “Oh, you darling old thing! Of course I am not serious. I couldn’t stand it, not even to be near you. I should die of the blues when winter came.”

“But winter here is not dreary a bit. The flowers bloom in the garden all the year around; you should see the geraniums—and if one has a few friends they are enough. Of course we came here originally for Juan’s health. After that dreadful illness of his last winter it seemed the best thing to do and he pined for his native air. You see how much good it has done him; he is quite another man, and as long as it makes him happy to stay I shall not say a word.”

“I fancy he will get tired of it after a while and will want a broader field for his energies.”

“Perhaps, but I shall try to be content either way. At least,” she added after a pause, “I shall be while I have you with me. There is such freedom from the rush and worry of a big city and we can live on so very little. Then, too, it is such a pleasure for Juan and Tomás to be near one another after the long separation.”

“What did Tomás do before you all came?”

“Oh, he had an old housekeeper who did very well for him, and he has his friends both here and in the towns near by.”

“Fancy my ever marrying a Spaniard,” said Patty after a moment’s silence.

“No one could be truer, more faithful and honorable than my husband. Spaniards are much like other folk, there are good and bad among them; so far I have found the good to predominate. Do you find all our own countrymen absolutely blameless? The Spaniards are proud, to be sure.”

“I’ve been looking for that far-famed Spanish pride,” said Patty, “but up to the present I have discovered only the frankest conceit, and have been wondering if that passes for pride.”

“Oh, conceit isn’t confined to Spaniards. I’d like you to find anything more conceited than an out and out American or Englishman?”

“Not in just the same way. There is a childishness about the Spaniard’s conceit.”

“Which makes it much more endurable.”

“Dear me, how we do argue in and out, first on one side and then on the other. All right, Tina, I’ll consider it.”

“Don’t you make Tomás unhappy, that is all I ask. I don’t want you to get him into your toils and then drop him.”

“How can I tell anything about him unless I do get him into my toils as you express it?”

“Oh, go ’long, you foolish child; you are too much for me.”

“I’m too much for myself sometimes,” confessed Patty. She went to the window and began dropping bits of biscuit to the turkey-hen below, who turned a mild eye upward and solicited the alms in a little cooing voice. “I never knew that turkey-hens had such lovely eyes,” remarked Patty; “this one is quite fascinating which is more than I can say of the pig. Oh, come here, Tina, and see these beauty parrots, two of them. A man has brought them out from the next house and has set them free on the plaza. They are walking all about and are so funny.”

“The plaza is the place where everything goes on,” returned her sister. “It is a very diverting place, I find. There comes Juan walking as if an idea had suddenly cropped up in his cranium.”

“He is not coming at such a pace as warrants us to think there is anything very exciting on hand.”

“His pace is quite energetic for a Spaniard. Don’t you know, my dear, that it is very inelegant to seem hurried in Spain? If you wish to be considered a lady of quality, you must merely saunter; never seem in a hurry to get anywhere.”

“Oh dear, and I do love to fly along. I like to walk with vim and take my exercise as if I enjoyed it.”

“Don’t do it in Spain. Well?” Doña Martina leaned over to speak to her husband who had paused beneath the balcony. “Would we like to go to a peasant’s home to see an ancient loom? A patient of yours? Old Antonia? Why, I am sure we should like it. You would wouldn’t you, Patty?”

“I’d delight in it. Where’s Polly? I know she will be ready for any sort of outing.”

“We can come around by the playa if you care to walk so far,” Don Juan told them as the three joined him below stairs.

“And what is the playa, please?” asked Paulette.

“The seashore, the beach.”

“Oh, do let us go there. I have been crazy to see it,” said Patty. “We can walk any distance, can’t we, Polly?”

“Oh, yes, to be sure. I, too, wish to see the sea, that bay of Biscay of which we hear so much.”

“It is really just like the sea, I suppose, for the bay is only a part of the ocean curving down a little towards Spain. Is this where the weaver lives?”

“Yes. She weaves only very coarse linen for household use, but the loom is a very old one which has been in use a hundred years at least; no one knows how long, and the house, too, is quite well worth seeing as a type of those in which the peasants live. You will not think them so badly housed. Antonia is poor, but you will see she has certain comforts.”

“And where is Tomás?” asked Patty.

“He is coming. He went to the post-office and will meet us here.” The visit to the weaver was soon over. While the girls examined the loom the doctor made his call upon his patient, then Don Tomás joined them and up the long carretero they sauntered. Once in a while a light-hearted teamster passed them, lolling back in his wagon and singing some weird song whose final note poised and echoed long after the sound of the wagon wheels ceased. Then, too, they met brown peasant women carrying burdens upon their heads which did not prevent them from giving a “Buenos tardes,” or a “Vaya V. con Dios.” A little maid minding a couple of sheep, a goat, and a cow as they cropped the wayside grass, interested Patty. “Do they allow that?” she asked. “I mean, why doesn’t everyone herd their cows and sheep along the road?”

“Juana’s family have been granted special privileges,” Doña Martina answered. “You will find some odd customs here.”

“Here we turn off,” said Don Juan. “The old house just ahead is the one to which we go next. In former times it was occupied by a bishop, and there are interesting inscriptions over the doors and windows. It is an extremely old house and has withstood the attacks of war.”

“What war?” asked Paulette.

“I am sorry to say it was your own nation which committed the outrages of which you can see many evidences in this part of the country.”

A flight of stone steps led to the dimly lighted room at the doorway of which they were met by a dignified old woman who ushered them in with the air of one accustomed to receive honorable guests. The room was of good size but showed the ravages of time. It was simply furnished, though some rare old chests showed fine carvings, the wooden seats would have delighted an antiquarian, while the ancient windows and casements permitted no doubt of the extreme age of the house. All was neat and orderly, but the utmost simplicity prevailed. The kitchen utensils of copper and brass shone brightly, and there were a few specimens of old pottery on the shelves, but no more than necessity demanded.

Patty looked with interest upon the primitive fireplace. “It is exactly the same kind of thing you can imagine Sarah cooked Abraham’s dinner upon,” she remarked. “How do they manage it? It looks just like an altar.”

“The fire is kindled on the top of the—altar as you call it, and the food is cooked over that,” her sister told her.

“Isn’t it primitive?”

“Very, but it is wonderful what a variety of food can be cooked in that simple manner, and it is more surprising that it is cooked so well.”

“Is that the only kind of stove you have in your kitchen?”

“About the same.”

“Good! then I shall see how it is used and when I keep house in Spain I shall not be at a loss if my cook leaves suddenly.”

Her sister shook her head at this offending speech and turned her attention to Paulette who was examining the rudely hewn timbers, black with age. Old Francesca was pouring out her woes into Don Juan’s sympathetic ears. She was bent with rheumatism, for the cure of which she had offered candles to the saints in vain. “She belongs to a good old family,” Don Juan told them as they came away, “but they became impoverished, and now Francesca has not the comforts she needs. She has to work in the fields and that is not good for her.”

“That old woman?”

“Yes, you may see her and her sister in the haying season bringing in all the hay to fill their loft. I have seen the two of them bent under such a load as hid them from sight.”

“Yet she has some valuable old possessions; why doesn’t she sell them?”

“First, because she could not be induced to part from them, and again because there are few purchasers of such things in this part of the country. You are far from the track of the tourist, my dear, and transportation over these mountain roads is expensive.”

“Now for the playa,” said Doña Martina. “Paulette, my dear, your French heels will never take you comfortably over this rough road. Better let Tomás pilot you. Patty, Juan and I will look out for you,” and Patty, who expected Tomás to give his attention to her, was obliged to turn back that she might be under her sister’s wing.

The way was lovely enough in spite of stones, for great trees met overhead, and a little stream babbled a winding course to the sea. Wild flowers enlivened the green, wild honeysuckle, English daisies and big-eyed marguerites, wild rose blooms, too, spotted the bushes, and the little partridge-pea threw its tendrils over the rocks. At last a narrow strip of beach, with high cliffs on either side confronted them. Great jagged pillars supported the roofs of cave-like structures, through which one could pass to the sands beyond.

“They look as if they had been hewn out by Hercules or Titan, or some of those old fellows,” said Patty. “I am coming here to take a dip sometimes. I suppose it is perfectly safe.”

“Oh, dear, yes, and you see those great caves on each side afford proper bath houses,” said her sister. “The unwritten law is that the men take the right, the women the left.”

“It is such a nice, peaceful place I should like to spend a day here with a book and—”

“And what?”

“Tomás,” whispered Patty, with a little laugh.

“You and Tomás could easily come,” replied her sister, calmly, “although, of course, you would not be so rude as to leave Paulette at home.”

“She would very likely decline to go,” said Patty, willing to enter into an argument. “I think this one trip will be enough for her French heels.”

“How about yours?”

“Oh, I have a fine pair of tennis shoes at home which I shall wear next time. I brought them purposely for rough walking, but I didn’t put them on to-day because I didn’t know it would be rough.”

“I shall not allow you to go off for a whole day with Tomás; it would scandalize the community,” her sister went on.

“When he is your brother?”

“He is not yours.”

“Oh, well, if that is the case, you and Juan can go, too. We can take lunch. Juan can fish, you can go to sleep, and if Paulette decides to go with us she can read.”

“And what will you do?”

“I will study Spanish with Tomás. We can find some nice little out-of-the-way corner where we shall be undisturbed.”

“You will? We shall see.”

“Exactly. That is what I thought we could do. By the way, talking of fishing, that was mighty good fish we had to-day. What was it?”

“Merluza they call it.”

“Do they get it here?”

“Yes, near by. We think it very fine. But Patty,”

“Yes?”

“Please don’t trifle with Tomás.”

“My dear, we thrashed that out long ago, and we decided that forty dollars a year for a house and—”

“Do stop your foolishness. Here comes Juan,” said Martina, hastily. And Patty was left to meditate upon her shortcomings while the other four went to examine the curious rocks.

She sat quite unconcernedly upon the rock where she had ensconced herself and at last had the satisfaction of seeing Tomás advancing toward her alone, Paulette having remained with the other two. “I was tired; it was such a long walk,” said Patty, smiling up sweetly. Her vocabulary was sufficient by this time to compass ordinary phrases.

“But it is sunny and hot here; we will find the shade,” said Tomás. And Patty had the delight of being escorted to a sequestered corner while her sister cast anxious glances toward the spot where she had left the girl.

## CHAPTER IV

### ANTIQUITIES

“Paulette,” Patty spoke from the pillows against which she lay, her arms over her head. Her dark hair had dropped in a dusky coil over the white covers, her eyes were full of mischief. “I’ve decided to be generous and let you have the old don. Fancy your living in a twelfth century palace and having precious old gold cups to drink from with wonderful old jewelry to wear.”

“Bah!” exclaimed Paulette, “I want no old man. You are quite welcome to your twelfth century palace. I prefer a younger house wiz a younger man.”

“That is because you have not judgment enough to make the most of your opportunities. It is not every day given a girl to meet a wealthy grandee of Spain who owns more land than anyone else for miles around, has half a dozen old palaces, coaches and such things to burn, and who, moreover, belongs to one of the oldest families in the country. I am surprised, Paulette. I thought I had brought you up better than to scorn such wonderful gifts.”

“But, ma chère, you forget one very important sing.”

“And what may that be?”

“Suppose the gentleman prefaire my friend Pattee and do not fix the eye upon me?”

“Then all you have to do is to make him fix the eye upon you. As if any man turned to black hair when golden locks come within his range of vision. Fancy a coach and four with outriders! They say that is the way he rides about the country.”

“Oh, zey say, zey say a great many sings. I am not content to sit in ze coach wiz ze old man; zat is not enough for me. When is he to arrive, zis prince?”

“He isn’t a prince, he is simply a blue-blood don, and he has already arrived. I saw the back of his head as he was about to ride away yesterday. He didn’t come in his coach and four but on horseback. He is rather small for his age which is somewhere near seventy, he has dispensed with some of his hair in the course of time, but is brisk and natty. He mounted his horse with great agility and I should say that he was good for at least ten years.”

“He is a vidow?”

“No, my dear, he couldn’t be under any circumstances. I believe he is a bachelor. He has invited us all to lunch to-day and then I shall see you weaken before the wonders of his palace. They say he spends most of his time viewing his estates and indulging a fancy for antiques; would we were older! He has a manager or superintendent or mayordomo, or whatever you may call it, with men under him, and they say he has so much property he doesn’t recognize his own when he meets it on the road. It must be rather nice when you drive along and remark upon some particularly attractive place to have your agent say: ‘That belongs to you, sire.’ It is said that often happens in Don Felipe’s case. See how much information I have gathered for your benefit. What Tina could not tell me Juan was able to, as the Estradas and Velascos have been neighbors for centuries.”

“So kind you are, and how much of this information did you gather for yourself?”

“Only so much as would make me an intelligent guest to-day when we go to the palacio to lunch. It will not be a mere merienda, Paulette, but a state affair when I hope all the gold dishes will be put to use and you will be sufficiently impressed with the magnificence of your future ménage.”

“La-la-la, how you take it all for granted. So large an imagination you have. Perhaps I spur-rn it all and desire the love in a cottage.”

“Ah-h!” Patty sprang from the bed, turned Paulette’s face toward the light and regarded her fixedly, then she smiled. “Well, my dear, all I know is you won’t have to live in a hovel. With your income you could even afford something approaching what they call a palace in this land. Yet, I hate to see the coach and four and the gold dishes go to waste.”

“Zen vy not take zem yourself, if zey are so easy to be procured?”

“Ah, why? That is what I don’t know. I rather imagine it is because like yourself, love in a cottage appeals to my youthful fancy more forcibly. However, one can never tell. I may fall on my knees and adore when I see the twelfth century palace. I almost wish you had a decided yearning for it. A real well-established rivalry would be most exciting, and might spur me on to use my most fetching blandishments.”

“What nonsense are you girls talking?” said Doña Martina, putting her head in at the door.

“Oh, we’re only discussing Don Felipe.”

“Quarreling already over the possession of him?”

“Yes, but not exactly in a way which would flatter his don-ship. Each is trying to sacrifice herself for the good of the other; I want to give him to Paulette with my blessing while she insists that I shall take him. Queer, isn’t it?”

“You certainly must have great confidence in your own charms. A man who has withstood the attractions of women, young and old, for half a century isn’t likely to succumb to two chits like you,” returned Doña Martina, “and you might as well spare yourself further argument.”

“Now since you say that I believe I have received the necessary impetus,” said Patty. “Conceive of the glory it would be to storm a fort which has held out against all former assaults and to have it surrender to you. I have decided, Polly; you can’t have him. Mine be the palaces, the coaches, the gold and silver, the jewels rare. ‘They say I may marry the laird if I will,’” she sang, dropping into a Spanish dance.

“Isn’t she silly?” asked Doña Martina. “We know just how much of what she is saying she means.”

“Wait till this afternoon,” said Patty, pausing in her dance. “I am going to find Juan, you two can entertain one another till I get back.”

“She is not half so frivolous as she seems,” remarked Doña Martina, when Patty left the room. “She has much good sense and you should see her rise to an emergency.”

“She is so glad to be free of convent life; I sink it zat reason which makes her volatile,” returned Paulette, “but I know her serious and earnest, too. I see zat side at times. She says many sings to be talking. As you Americans say, she speaks by ze hat.”

Doña Martina laughed. “That is quite true, Paulette.”

“She is so good company. All ze girls like her, and ze sisters look over many sings zey will not excuse in ozzers, for she is so studious, so alert. Zey say, ‘Ah, zat Mademoiselle Blake, she is American, she does not know better,’ and we all smile for we understand. It is Patty and zat is sufficient for us.”

“I can understand, too,” said Doña Martina. “I try to be severe with her and she turns my own weapons against me. She can already wheedle Juan into anything, and as for Tomás.”

“Ah, zat young man”—began Paulette.

“What were you going to say?” asked Doña Martina, seeing that she did not go on.

“Only zat he is a very amiable young man, zat was all.”

Doña Martina looked puzzled but did not pursue the subject. Instead she proposed that they join Patty and Don Juan who were sitting under the big tree at the side of the plaza.

As the two passed out Matilda stopped to give them a hearty greeting in her boisterous tones, Rosario looked up from her embroidery frame with a shy smile, and Consuelo coming from the bakery across the way with some little twisted loaves in a basket, fairly beamed when the ladies gave her a word in Spanish. A large wagon drawn by mules in jingling harness, had stopped before the door; men were unloading pigskins of wine and were joking heartily with Matilda. Doña Martina and Paulette waited for two creaking cow-carts to pass before they crossed the road to the big tree. The carts were led by somber-looking men with long goads laid across the shoulders. A touch of the goad between the horns of the cows sufficed to guide them. The patient creatures with a sheepskin pad to hold the yoke and a red fringe over their eyes to protect them from insects, plodded along slowly.

“Will they ever get there?” said Patty, looking after them. “I don’t wonder it is considered inelegant to walk briskly in this country when even the teams creep along like that.”

“I have seen donkeys go at quite a trotting pace,” said Paulette.

“So have I, and you, too, would go at a trotting pace if you had a hatpin jabbed into you at every step. I saw a girl this morning taking that very means of making her poor little donkey go faster.”

“I wish I had seen her,” said Don Juan, fiercely. “I would have stopped that business fast enough.”

“Oh, yes he would,” Doña Martina hastened to say, seeing that Patty looked incredulous. “He would have rated her soundly. None of them dare to practise such cruelties when Don Juan is around, I can assure you. It is time to get ready, Patty, if we are to take the noon train.”

“Don Felipe should have sent his coach for us,” said Patty, rising to her feet.

“The train will get us there sooner than the coach could.”

“Yes, but there is no haste in Spain, and fancy the glory of riding in such a magnificent way. Do you prefer milk-white steeds or coal-black ones, Polly?”

“I prefaire to go in the train,” returned Paulette, scornfully.

“Perhaps you will prefaire to come back in the coach,” said Patty, mockingly. “Have you decided what to wear, Polly, dear?”

“Ze gown which is ze most unbecoming,” Paulette declared.

“Oh, how silly to appear in your most unbecoming gown before three men, not to mention the mayordomo. I shall wear my very best and outshine you all. You’d better wear that lovely soft green thing; you look better in that than in anything else.”

“Perhaps I do,” returned Paulette.

It was but a short distance to the station nearest Don Felipe’s old palacio and the walk from the railway was a charming one through a long avenue arched over by great trees. Don Felipe stood on the steps to meet them, and with old-fashioned dignity and many compliments, conducted them up a long flight of stone steps which led inside the house, to the first floor. As the girls ascended, they caught sight of several carriages on one side of the lower floor and of some half dozen horses stamping in their stalls on the other.

“How queer,” whispered Patty to her sister. “Do they always keep their horses and carriages in the basements of the palaces?”

“Sh!” warned Doña Martina. “He knows some English,” and Patty subsided.

They were ushered into a great hall, crowded with wonderful old furniture, carven chests, chairs and cabinets. On the walls hung dim but rare old pictures, in the cases in a corridor beyond they caught sight of collections of painted fans, of jewels, of fine porcelain. There was scarce an article to be seen which did not possess some history or which did not represent great antiquity.

Patty flitted from one thing to another, commenting in broken Spanish on this, going into ecstasies in English over that, pouring out in voluble French her admiration of something else. Don Felipe spoke French fluently, and at last this came to be the accepted language, except when Don Tomás, looking bewildered, would ask for some explanation or would make the remark, “Shocking! Awful badth form.” Paulette was scarcely less vivacious than Patty, and her little French mannerisms, her gestures and exclamations were more pronounced, so that Don Felipe did not want for enthusiasm in his guests. He led them from room to room, pausing at last before the floor of a spacious old kitchen, whose black rafters and dim walls enclosed a scene which Doña Martina declared she would like to paint. Four or five old women hovered over the copper and brass vessels which were set over the fire in the huge fireplace. On the floor lay a watchful dog. Perched high on a dresser was the house cat. Baskets of vegetables and fruit lent color to a picture which indeed was well worth painting.

“It is perfectly delightful,” declared Doña Martina for the third or fourth time. “The whole place is perfectly charming.”

“It is yours, señora,” returned Don Felipe.

“Do you think he would give me a copper kettle, that queer one over there?” whispered Patty to her sister, who, understanding Spanish hospitality perfectly, did not take Don Felipe at his word, but expressed the proper thanks and said that some time she would enjoy making a sketch.

In the great dining-room a lunch was spread, and as Patty prophesied, it was served from fine old plate, rare china and costly glass. At the close of the meal, Don Felipe begged the ladies to keep their coffee cups as souvenirs. “That you may not forget the old man who has been so honored by your presence,” he said.

The coach with four black horses bore them home. Don Felipe, his mayordomo by his side, stood on the steps to wave a last farewell. Patty looked back at the old gray palace, at the carved balconies, sculptured escutcheons and windows, around which clung blossoming vines. “I feel as if I were in a fairy tale,” she murmured. “Really, Paulette,” she added, “I am quite jealous, for I am sure you have the finest cup.”

“No, Doña Martina has,” Paulette insisted, and so it proved to be. Don Felipe was nothing if not discreet in his attentions, and had tried to show no preference.

“Though,” said Patty plaintively, “I did say he was tiresome when I meant to ask him if he were tired. I shall never get that frightful verb Estar in the right place. It all comes of my trying to show off and compliment Don Felipe in his own language. I shall stick to French next time. I knew I should get into trouble with your stupid old language,” she continued, turning to Don Tomás. “I don’t see why one verb to be isn’t enough for you anyway. I saw you grinning at my mistake.” The truth being that Don Tomás had kept a perfectly straight face, although it was impossible for him to hide the amusement in his eyes. “Don’t you think it was horrid of you?” Patty went on, as if the entire fault was due to Don Tomás.

“Shocking! Awful badth form,” returned Don Tomás with an attempt at propitiation.

Then, having wrung this from him, and raised a laugh at his expense, Patty was satisfied.

“It is all nonsense to pretend that Don Felipe didn’t understand that you made a perfectly natural mistake,” Doña Martina told her sister. “I am sure your Spanish isn’t so correct at any time that he couldn’t see that you meant the other thing.”

“Then I must redouble my efforts to learn,” said Patty calmly. “Tomás will have to devote more time to me.” So did she retaliate and was immediately in a better humor.

“Who would ride in a motor car when one can set the whole population agog by dashing into town in this style?” said Doña Martina as the equipage rattled up the street and stopped before the fonda, the observed of men, women, and children. Matilda, pleased beyond measure at the honor, bustled out to meet her guests, the children of the neighborhood gathered in a group at a respectful distance, while the girls at the fountain paused in their task of scrubbing their buckets, to gaze at this display of splendor. Don Felipe’s coach was well known, though seldom did it stop at the door of any of the villagers.

The next day came three huge bouquets for the ladies from Don Felipe, and no one could tell which was the more beautiful, though Patty declared that the presence of a clavel in Paulette’s meant more than appeared to the uninitiated. “It is you, Polly, I am sure,” she told her friend. “The clavel is always the token of a young man’s regard.”

“Young man, did I hear you say?”

“Oh, pshaw! Why such distinctions? A Spaniard’s, then. A Spanish man’s regard. Must I give up that lovely old palace just as I am beginning to appreciate, and was planning how to make it more cleanly?”

Paulette shrugged her shoulders. “Sillee, Sillee, Sillee,” she chanted.

“There is one thing I can do,” said Patty: “I can go and buy a post card of the place. Tomás and I saw some last evening, and I shall not tell you where they are.”

“He will tell me.”

“Oh, will he?” Patty turned and gave Paulette a swift scrutiny.

“I believe you really would rather have the forty-dollar-a-year house than the twelfth century palace,” she remarked. “What a pity that it isn’t Tomás who owns the palacio, but then, poor old Don Felipe, what compensation would there be for him? Really, Polly, I made no mistake in calling him tiresome, and maybe I knew my Spanish better than I pretended when I said es cansado instead of esta. Now I am going to get the post cards and I shall buy them all so there will be none left for you.”

## CHAPTER V

### MY OLD KENTUCKY HOME

The next day there was such an influx of custom, so many cattlemen to demand meals, that the dining-room was insufficient to accommodate both these and Don Juan’s party; moreover, Matilda declared that it would not do to seat ladies at the table with so many rough men, therefore dinner was served in the little sala.

“Six places,” said Doña Martina as they sat down. “Matilda has not counted noses this time; there is one too many.” She had hardly spoken when the door opened and in walked the young Englishman who had left them the week before. He bowed to the company and sat down at the end of the table. On his right was Patty, on his left Doña Martina.

“As I was saying,” Patty began, in English, “a twelfth century palace may be very charming to look at and to live in during the summer, but in winter the saints deliver me from a chilly house.”

The young man looked up brightly. “You are English, American, of course, and I fancied you were all Spaniards.”

“We are a composite party.” Patty had found the entering wedge. “My sister and I are Americans, my brother-in-law is Spanish, and so, of course, is his brother, while my friend is French.”

“Then you are a compatriot of mine.”

“Are you an American?” It was Patty’s turn to be surprised. “We all thought you so deadly English.”

“I have lived in England for a number of years. My mother was an Englishwoman. After my father’s death she went home to live and I completed my education in England.”

“That accounts for it.”

“For my seeming like an Englishman? Yes, of course, but I still claim America and am delighted to meet Americans. One finds very few in this part of the world.”

“We haven’t met any. You are the first we have seen, and you are really a sort of mixture, aren’t you?”

“I suppose I am, but in spite of that I still cling to the traditions of my boyhood. The happiest years of my life were spent in the States.”

“That sounds very English, or foreign, I should say. We are so lordly in our claims that we call ourselves Americans and our country America, while here an Americano is one who has been to Spanish America. We are Inglesas because we speak English. I felt quite abashed when I asked a Spanish-American if he were not a Spaniard, and he quite indignantly replied, ‘No, I am an American.’ ‘But you speak Spanish,’ I persisted. ‘So do you speak English,’ he said, ‘but you are not an Englishwoman.’ It was quite a new point of view to me. That was when I first came abroad; now I am broader-minded.”

“From what part of America are you?” asked Doña Martina, addressing her neighbor. “One cannot tell by your speech, you know.”

“I was born in Louisville, Kentucky. My father’s name was Robert Lisle and mine is the same.”

“I wonder if you could be related to Margaret Lisle, who married our uncle, Henry Beckwith.”

“She is my first cousin.”

“Really? Isn’t that a coincidence? As we are continually saying, the world is very small. I must tell my husband; he knows Uncle Henry very well. Why, you are quite like a relative, and from our own state, too. What are you doing down here in Spain? Traveling for pleasure?”

“No, I am a mining engineer. I have come down with some Englishmen interested in the mines of this province. I have been to Gijon and am going to join my friends in Santander later on. I stopped off at this place, where I had been once before, and, remembering this good little fonda, I concluded it would be a proper center from which to make a few trips to Covadonga and other places in the neighborhood.”

“Covadonga is one of the places we have in mind to visit,” Doña Martina told him. “Just now we are merely staying here till our house shall be in order. It should have been ready before this, but you know the Spanish mañana, and the painters will not have left it for a few days yet. Meanwhile, we are comfortable and are seeing something of the life in the village.”

“Unfortunately for me, my Spanish is very shaky and I cannot get along without a phrase book. It seemed rather venturesome to come to these parts so poorly equipped, but the call was sudden, and I had no time to prepare for it.”

“I’ve no doubt you know as much as Mademoiselle Delambre and I do,” Patty chimed in. “I make frightful mistakes, but I plunge in recklessly and am gradually getting a vocabulary.”

“I thought before I ventured too far off by myself I would devote a little time to study, and perhaps you can recommend a teacher, or at least someone who would be willing to give me some hours of conversation each day.”

“I am sure my husband can direct you to someone,” Doña Martina assured him, and with that, the meal having been finished, they all left the table.

This new acquaintance brought a fresh element into the party. As Doña Martina remarked, “I told you so. Let Patty but appear and a man drops down from the skies; already there are three on the list and I hope she is content.”

Paulette looked up from under her light lashes and smiled. She was fond of Patty, but in her heart of hearts she felt that her own attractions were not to be despised. She was a small person, rather chic, and, but for a somewhat large nose and a rough complexion, would have been considered pretty. As it was she made the most of a slim figure and golden locks, which were her chief charms.

“Your golden hair, Polly, dear, is your fortune as much as your ducats are,” Patty had one day said to her when they were discussing each other in that perfectly frank way that young girls have. “With that and your very stylish and trig form you are saved from being utterly commonplace. Your eyes are rather small, your mouth nothing remarkable; you have too much nose; your feet are passable in high heels; your hands are positively ugly, but no one observes anything but those golden locks and that you have an air.”

“And you, my dear Patty, may not have what you call an air, but cast a glance from those melting brown eyes upon even a gamin in the street and he bows before you. Your nose is impertinent, but it is not, as mine, a feature whose bridge it is difficult to pass over. A nez retrousée is not objectionable, it is in fact desirable with such eyes. A very long nose would give you a visage so melancholy as would make one fancy you a veritable ascetic. Your mouth is a trifle large for your nose, but better that than too small, else your eyes would seem out of proportion. Your figure is not bad, a little thin, but that is a fault which years may improve. I may grow too stout, you will not.”

“How honest we are,” Patty returned. “That comes of hearing so much about confessions and the like, here in the convent.”

The confessions were not so frequent, once the convent was left behind, for the two girls were now in the world of reality rather than of dreams, and there was too much that was vitally interesting going on about them to admit of vagaries and of such discussions as touched only personal appearance. Each tried to look her best and thoroughly enjoyed the pretty summer outfit which had been a matter of such moment at the time of providing.

Patty had sought the galleria after dinner, and stood watching the great stars slip down behind the mountains. From below came the laughter and chatter of the vaqueros who had gathered in the wine-room. There was more movement than usual on the little plaza, on account of the presence of so many cattle drivers. The air was sweet with the scent of blossoms hidden behind garden walls or nodding from the boxes set in windows. Paulette, Don Tomás and Doña Martina were pacing the white way. Don Juan was busy over his papers. Patty, leaning her arms on the ledge of the galleria rested her chin upon them. It was pleasant to be there. One seldom had a chance to be alone, and once in a while one must have time to think. How long ago it seemed since she and Tina had come from home, that home which was now broken up. Five years Tina had been married. Before that was the yellow house with white pillars, the garden—ah, yes, that was it—the scent of flowers reminded her of home. She could see her father pacing, pacing, his hands behind him, his head bent. That was after the days when her frail little mother, with big eyes like Patty’s own, used to walk the garden-paths, holding little Patty by the hand, the little six year old Patty, who suddenly missed the dear companion and found out there was no use in asking again for mother, for she was in far off heaven, too distant to reach. Then grandma Beckwith took mother’s place at table, and finally there was neither grandma Beckwith nor papa to haunt the garden walks, only Patty and Tina and the new brother Juan. Three years these had lived in the old house, then it was leased for a term of years and the two sisters came abroad, Patty to finish her education with the sisters in a convent, and Tina to follow her husband wherever his business might call him. They had gone to London first and then to Paris, where, within the last year, Don Juan had been desperately ill, and upon his recovery had felt that nothing would complete his cure but the healthful breezes of his native province in northern Spain. It had been a long two years for Patty, although there were visits from her sister once in a while, and one Christmas there had been a jolly good time at an old chateau, where lived an American fellow schoolmate, who had invited Patty with some other girls for a holiday visit. Now schooldays were over and what next? The summer here, and then would they go to Madrid as Don Juan sometimes thought of doing? Would they stay here in Asturias? Would they return to America? This present experience was delightfully novel and entertaining. It was pleasant, too, to be with dear old Tina, who tried to be so strict and to maintain such discipline with her young sister, just as she had always tried in the days gone by, but— A homesick feeling came over Patty, a longing for the old home, the old ways, for the beloved country whose faults, like her own, were but youthful faults after all.

She gave a long sigh, and presently became aware from a slight movement that someone had stepped out upon the balcony, then a voice said, “I beg your pardon. I didn’t know anyone was out here. Will my cigar annoy you?”

“And I with a Spanish brother-in-law who smokes cigarettes eternally? No, Mr. Lisle, I have passed beyond feeling annoyed at so slight a thing as that. In the convent, of course, the sisters don’t smoke.”

“The convent?”

“Yes, I have been there for the past two years completing my education. I have learned many things—especially from the French girls.”

She did not see the young man’s frown. “And from the sisters?”

“Oh, I learned things from them, too, the dear doves. I have become fluent in excellent French. I learned to embroider beautifully; I can sketch—a little; my music isn’t so terrible and—well, the lives of the saints may be very edifying, but somehow they never did interest me as much as the lives of the sinners.”

“Whom do you class among the sinners?”

“Myself for one.”

“I can scarcely credit that. Are you such a sinner?”

“We are all miserable sinners, so sister Cecile used to say, and I think she meant I was one of the chief, yet, I am sure she loved me. Some day I must go back there to see them all, for I was really very happy after a fashion.”

“And now?”

“Oh, I am happier still now, though I was happiest in the dear old home. I have just been thinking about it. The smell of the roses brought it all back to me.”

“Tell me about it. May I sit here?” He threw away his cigar and established himself on the bench which ran along one side of the galleria, while Patty sat opposite in a porch chair.

“It is in Kentucky, you know,” the girl said, “not far from Lexington, and I spent all my childhood there. I had a governess after my mother died, then, after my father’s death, I went to boarding-school for a while. I was still at school when my sister married. We lived in the old home for a couple of years after that, then, when Dr. Estradas had to come over here, they brought me with them and sent me to a convent to finish my studies.”

“Then you, too, are an orphan.”

“Yes, I have no one but Tina.”

“I have my grandfather and one uncle, no brothers or sisters. I, too, remember my old Kentucky home and my happy boyhood.”

“Don’t you get homesick, oh so homesick for it sometimes? I do. ‘For the sun shines bright on my old Kentucky home, my old Kentucky home so far away,’” she sang softly. “That almost breaks my heart, for my mother used to sing it to me, and it brings back everything, everything, the old house with the white columns, the roses in bloom, the sun shining on the trees. Oh, dear, why can’t things stay as we want them?”

“‘DON’T YOU GET HOMESICK?’”

“There is nothing we can count on but change.”

“Alas, no. Do you ever expect to go back?”

“I should like to, but I probably shall not while my grandfather lives.”

“You have an English home, though, and that must be lovely. I have been in England, and I know how charming some of the homes there are.”

“Ours is not particularly so. It is in London, and though we have a garden, after a fashion, it is not like the one I remember in Kentucky, which must have been something like that of your childhood’s delight.”

“Then you love your old Kentucky home the best?” Patty said eagerly.

“Yes, I confess it. Perhaps when I see it again the glory will have departed, though in my dreams it is the most charming spot in the world.”

“Did it have tall box walks and a perfect riot of roses climbing everywhere? Was there an old apple-tree with a lovely low crotch where you could sit? Was there a queer sun-dial and a fountain? Did the beehives stand at one end, and were there currant bushes all along one side? That is the way ours was.”

“Ours was not unlike, except that my favorite was a cherry tree, and we had gooseberries instead of currants. There were no bees, but I kept pigeons and they used to strut up and down the graveled walks. It broke my heart to give up those pigeons.”

“And it nearly killed me to part from my pony.”

“My little mare, Betsy, is still there. I can imagine it was a wrench for you to give up your pony if you felt as I did about Bet.”

“Who lives there now?”

“An aunt, my father’s aunt, so it is not in the hands of strangers.”

“Our house is. We have rented it and shall sell it when we have a good offer.”

“Then you do not expect to go back there to live.”

“No. Juan’s interests seem to be centering over here, and where Tina is I shall be. We may spend the winter in Madrid or Paris, so you see the prospect of going back to old Kaintuck is a very distant one. We leave this fonda in a few days for Juan’s home. It is just beyond, between this and the next village, and there we shall spend the summer. Don Tomás has been living there alone since his mother’s death about three years ago, and the house really was badly in need of repairs.”

“I notice you say Tomás with the accent on the last syllable, and not as we pronounce Thomas.”

“Yes, that is the way the Spanish call it. I think I like it better. They are coming up. I must go in, for no doubt my sister wonders what has become of me.”

She joined the others in the sala, leaving Mr. Lisle to his own reflections. “Where have you been all this time, Patty?” asked her sister.

“Oh, I have been meditating part of the time. I should think you would be glad to know I do think sometimes.”

“Were you out there on the galleria all the time?”

“Yes.”

Doña Martina sniffed the air. “Someone is smoking. Was Juan with you?”

“No, dearest of duennas, he was not. I had the charming society of our compatriot, and we have been talking of our Kentucky homes till I am sure he is homesick; I know I am.”

Her sister’s face softened and she said gently: “It wasn’t exactly right for you to sit out there with him alone.”

“Wasn’t it? I am sure we know just who he is.”

“But he has not been properly presented and we know nothing about him except that his cousin married our uncle.”

“Then, please, Tina, dear, go right to your room and write to Uncle Henry to find out. It takes so long to get letters back and forth. I’m afraid he will be gone before we can begin to treat him like a relation.”

“Patty, Patty, you are perfectly irrepressible.”

“Never mind. You will write, won’t you? Please, like an angel,” and she turned a pair of appealing eyes upon her sister, eyes so wistfully tender that Doña Martina, half laughing, said:

“Well, yes, I will, if only to satisfy myself that he is all right. I’ll write to-morrow, Patty. I am too tired to-night.”

But as fate would have it, the epistle never was written, for the very next day came a letter from Mr. Beckwith himself. Doña Martina handed it over to her sister with the remark, “There are moments when I feel that the Spanish are right in never doing to-day what can be put off till to-morrow. This is an actual answer to what I might have written and didn’t. There on the last page,” and Patty read: “By the way, Mag tells me that Bob Lisle’s son is somewhere in Spain. Of course we know it is a big place, but if you should happen to run across him do the boy a good turn if you can. He is a fine lad. His father was a great friend of mine and a better fellow never stepped. They say the son is like him, though I’ve not seen the youngster since he was in knickerbockers. He promised well then. Mag hears from him occasionally and of him from his aunt, old Mrs. Breckenridge, who lives on the Lisle place. She thinks there was never anyone like young Robert.”

“So there,” Patty ejaculated, as she slowly refolded the letter. “Well, Tina, you will be nice to him.”

“Of course, but not on your account, Mistress Patience Blake.”

“For his own sake, then?”

“Yes, and for Aunt Mag’s. I will tell Juan he is to be treated like a relative, and you know what that will mean to a Spaniard.”

## CHAPTER VI

### THE DAY OF SAN JUAN

In a few days the little fonda lost the guests who had set such a mark of distinction upon it that Matilda felt her house had risen to the highest repute. A rainy day had kept all within doors and had lent an opportunity for better acquaintance with Robert Lisle, an opportunity which was made use of, not alone by Patty, but by Doña Martina and her husband. These two latter had urged Mr. Lisle to make their house his home while he remained, but he had declined, saying his movements were uncertain and he might at any moment be called to Santander. He promised, however, to consider them as relatives upon whom he could drop in without ceremony.

The charming old Estrada mansion could not be entirely seen from the high road; one must enter through a lofty gate before all the gray buildings came in sight, though they and the garden were visible from the side where one of the little narrow byways led off into the mountain. A low fence surrounded this side of the garden, which overlooked a green vale and the mounting reaches of the mountains themselves. Entering the main gateway, one saw first the house itself, with its stone patio, where countless pigeons cooed and pattered about. Above were stone balconies and deep set windows, over which were the sculptured arms of the house of Estrada. From a stone-paved hallway, into which one must first enter, opened dining-room, kitchen, pantries and servants’ quarters, while above stairs were the salon and the bedchambers, all spacious rooms, looking out upon the garden in one direction and the mountains in another. The furniture was old, but the rooms were comfortable and there were so many as well might accommodate a larger family. Beyond the house stood the little chapel, a covered way leading to it from the second storey. Further away were the stables and out-buildings. Fresh paint, where it was needed, gave an air of cleanliness to the place, though the fine old rafters, oaken floors and doors were left as they should be. In the garden, palms and apple trees, figs and oranges, roses and geraniums as high as your head, grew side by side, and this latter part of June there was a blaze of color.

Word had gone forth that Don Juan invited the villagers to a fiesta in honor of his home-coming and of his name day, and as he had throughout the countryside a reputation for performing wonderful cures, for great charity, and for true kindness of heart, far and near, the people prepared for the occasion.

Robert Lisle promised to be on hand and the evening before the day of San Juan appeared just as all were starting out for a walk.

“Come with us,” said Doña Martina. “We are going to follow the custom of St. John’s Eve. This is the vespera, as they call it.”

“And what is that?” he asked, taking from her hand the basket she carried.

“We are going to deck the streams and springs. Those are rose leaves in that basket and those flowering branches which Juan and Tomás carry are for the same purpose. Come with us and help. It is such a pretty custom and I want the girls to see how it is done.”

They pursued their way along a little stream which ran through the village. Here was the washing place where daily was seen a group of women beating out garments on the rocks or rinsing them in the clear mountain water. Further along was a bridge and further yet another, the latter in a quiet spot where the gurgle of the water and the whisper of the new leaves made a pleasant murmuring song. Here the party paused to strew their rose leaves and daisy petals.

Nothing would do but that Patty must explore the stream further along. “It is much more fun to stand on the very edge and send the petals on their mission,” she declared. “One somehow has a more intimate relation with the stream doing it that way.” Tomás followed her and the two were soon making merry over the fate of certain of their offerings.

“Come on, Glad Lady,” called Doña Martina. “We are going.”

“What did you call her?” inquired Mr. Lisle.

“Oh, that was Tomás’s first comment upon my sister. He said she was a glad lady and we thought it very apt.”

“She certainly is a merry creature, so much more spontaneous and frank than most one meets. I think candor and spontaneity are the charm of our Southern girls.”

“I like you to say ‘our’; it sounds as if you still felt you belonged to Kentucky.”

“Oh, but you know, I do feel so.”

“Paulette has vivacity enough,” Doña Martina went on, “but it is of a different quality.”

“Quite so. Miss Paulette is entertaining, but—she is French.”

“I see you have the insular prejudice.”

Mr. Lisle laughed. “I am afraid I have. Where do we go next?”

“To the fuente. The young people of the village will have bedecked it by now.”

“That is the fountain?”

“Yes, or the spring, as you choose. It is the great gossiping place, as I suppose you have noticed, for one is sure to meet one’s neighbors there during some part of the day.”

“It is singing the same little contented tune,” said Patty, as she and Tomás came up. “It does not change it even for feast days. Aren’t you all excited over to-morrow? I think there are so many pretty customs for the day of St. John. I like to think of the young men climbing to the windows of their lady loves to fasten flowers and boughs there. I am wondering if Don Felipe will climb to our window, Polly, to set a bough of blossoms thereby. I’d like to observe him in the act.”

“Patty,” her sister spoke reprovingly.

“But wouldn’t he look just like a monkey? Give him a red cap and coat and he might go with a hand organ.”

“Patty, you forget you are speaking of a friend of ours,” said her sister with dignity.

“Oh, but he is a friend of mine, too, and I may yet be making red coats and caps for him myself, who knows? At all events, I’d like to see him scrambling up to our balcony.”

The flowering branch was indeed there by the window the next morning, but by whom it was placed, or for whom it was intended, no one could discover. However, there were two nosegays, one each side the casement, so there was no disputing a claim to these. The two girls were laughingly squabbling over the bough of blossoms when Doña Martina called to them, “Come down, come down and see what our young friends have been doing.”

The two hurriedly made their toilets and went down to find an archway of flowers over the gate, garlands festooned across the windows and twined around the balconies. In the center of the patio was set a tree. “The presents have begun to arrive already,” Doña Martina told them. “Old Antonia has been here with a pair of pigeons and here comes Miguel with a basket.”

“Isn’t it exciting?” said Patty, peeping out to watch Anita take the basket.

“A remembrance for Don Juan, señora,” said the maid. Doña Martina lifted the cover to disclose a pair of white fowls.

And so the procession kept up all morning. Here came a lad with a basket of fruit, there an old woman with a bucket of eggs, next a young girl with a pat of butter on a quaint plate of peasant-ware, plate and all intended for the good doctor. The climax was reached when a handsome dark-eyed girl appeared, leading a snow-white lamb, decked off with a wreath of daisies, the flowers of San Juan.

All must go out to welcome the little lamb. “The true symbol of San Juan,” cried Doña Martina. “Isn’t it a darling? Come in, Perdita. Don Juan will want to thank you himself. Anita will take you to his study. She is very grateful,” Doña Martina explained to the girls, “for Juan cured her grandmother of threatened blindness. These peasants are such a superstitious set and someone had told the poor old grandmother to dry a piece of holy palm which had been blessed by the priest, to crush it to a powder and put it on her eyes. Imagine the result! I never saw Juan more indignant. ‘But, foolish woman,’ he said, ‘you have aggravated the trouble. You would be totally blind if you continued such a stupid course. Had you no better sense?’ ‘It was my faith, only my faith,’ wailed the poor old thing. They are just like that, and half the time all that is needed is a little common sense. Eye trouble is very common among them, and no wonder, for they use one another’s handkerchiefs indiscriminately and are utterly careless. Juan has cured scores of cases and they think he is a saint. I am sure Perdita has been coddling the lamb especially for this occasion.”

“Isn’t she a pretty girl,” said Patty, watching the giver of the lamb depart. “She has such masses of wavy hair and such beautiful eyes; then what a fine straight figure and fine carriage.”

“You should see her dance the jota; no one about here does it so well.”

“Shall we see her this evening?”

“Oh, yes, for we shall have good music. Now I must go and see if the maids have prepared refreshments enough. There will be a big crowd, I am sure. If any more presents come, tell me.”

More presents did come straggling along all day, until the supply of such things as the country people could bring added a large store to the larder. “They are poor,” Doña Martina explained, “and Juan accepts no fees, so, as this is their opportunity to give what they can, we are obliged to accept the gifts.”

“I think it is pathetic to see the little dabs some of them bring,” said Patty, watching Anita empty from a bag a small hoard of nuts.

“Are we to dress for the occasion?” asked Paulette.

“Why, a little, maybe,” Doña Martina told her. “White muslin frocks will do.”

“I wish we could wear something really Spanish,” said Patty.

“You can. I have a couple of shawls, mantas de Manila they are called here, and you can wear them as the Spanish girls do. You shall have the yellow one, Paulette the red. You must stick red flowers in your hair, I will show you how to arrange it, and then you will do. Some of the girls will perhaps wear the Asturian costume, they know we like them to, and some will wear the mantas de Manila; others still will simply wear the best they have.”

“Don’t I look Spanish?” cried Patty, well pleased with herself, when she stood ready for the dance. “You look stunning, too, Polly. Isn’t it a pretty dress?”

“You at least look Spanish enough,” her sister told her. And, indeed, with the yellow shawl draped gracefully around her, a red clavel over each ear, and a big fan in her hand she certainly did look as unlike an American girl as possible. “I must go show myself to Juan,” declared she, dancing out of the room.

She ran impetuously into the study and struck an attitude, unfurling her fan as she did so. “Behold Carmencita!” she cried.

“Bella! Hermosa!” came the comment from the man sitting near the window.

“Don Felipe!” faltered Patty, taken aback. “I thought it was Don Juan. I saw someone and I didn’t stop to see that it was not my brother.”

“Happy Don Juan, to dwell in the house with so much beauty,” returned Don Felipe with a bow.

“I am dressed for the fiesta,” Patty explained, “and I came in to show my costume. I look quite Spanish, do I not?”

“So much so that one might well believe you to be a native of my country. Perhaps you will one day adopt this old Spain of ours. Would it be difficult to persuade you?”

Patty thought of the antique jewels and answered coyly, “No one has tried to as yet, and—” as she saw a sudden flash come into the old don’s eyes, “I have not been here long enough to say whether I should like to make this my adopted country or not.” Then turning her head over her shoulder, “Here comes my brother now. Am I not fine, Juan?” she cried. “I look much more Spanish than Polly. I wish I knew some of the Spanish dances.”

“I should like to teach you,” spoke up Don Felipe.

Patty cast down her eyes that she might hide the amusement in them at the vision of herself capering in the jota opposite the small figure of Don Felipe. “Some time when we have not spectators, perhaps,” she said sweetly, “but to-day I shall only look on.”

“They are coming! They are coming!” Anita at the door announced excitedly, and Patty ran out to join her sister and Paulette, who, standing in the doorway, waited for the approaching villagers.

“They are singing,” said Patty.

“Yes, the song of San Juan,” her sister told her. “Let us go down to the gate and see them in the dance. They sometimes come for miles singing and dancing all the way.”

It could hardly be called a dance, though with joined hands a long line of young men and maidens chanted the song, progressing up the road while they took the step called the dance of San Juan. At the gateway they paused for a moment then entered singing still; Perdita at the head led a band of maidens who offered crowns of the field daisies, the flowers of San Juan. Then a young mountaineer approached with a bow.

“Where is Juan?” asked Doña Martina nervously. “Call him someone, quick.” But at that moment the doctor appeared and then and there was raised a song in his honor. It had been composed by the schoolmaster and had many stanzas which praised the kingly doctor, his gracious wife, his beautiful guests, his princely brother, his estimable friends, and at last sounded the virtues of even his cow and chickens. After this the maids hurried out with trays of cake and wine, the blind violinist and his wife, who pounded on a drum, struck up a typical air and the dancing began.

Most of the damsels considered it unladylike to display much action when dancing the jota, but Perdita was too greatly possessed with the spirit of the dance to be hedged about by conventionalities. With arms aloft, fingers snapping, body swaying, she responded to the steps of her partner. “It is a delight to see her,” said Patty to Don Tomás, who was standing by her side. “If only I could dance like that.”

“I will teach you,” he offered.

“I shall certainly not fail to accept your good offices,” she returned, “although we must practice when Don Felipe is not by. He has already offered to teach me.”

“PERDITA.”

“He? That old hombrecillo? That maniqui?” There was scorn in the tones of Don Tomás.

Patty laughed softly. It was not often that Don Tomás showed such temper. “There comes Mr. Lisle,” she said. “I wonder if he dances.”

“These Englishmen, they do not dance, they simply spin,” returned Tomás. “It is in Spain only that dancing is an art.”

“There’s vanity for you,” said Patty standing on tip-toe that Mr. Lisle might see her across the group of onlookers. “You Spaniards are the most guilelessly vain people I ever saw.”

“A Spanish lady and not dancing!” said Robert Lisle as he came up.

“The gladth ladthy is say she wish learn dance,” said Tomás, “and I am say I will teach.”

“Don’t you want to learn the jota?” Patty asked the new comer. “It is just over and it is such a pretty dance. You should have seen Perdita.”

“I am afraid a Spanish dance is beyond my powers, and that I have even forgotten the American method.”

“If you ever knew you will pick it up again. We have had such a day of it, and—oh I believe they are going to illuminate the house and grounds! What fun! They will keep it up all night, I do believe. Why have you not been on hand to see our precious doings?”

“I had some work to do which kept me, and I was out very early.”

“Early enough to see them decorate this place? They came long before we thought of getting up. We heard voices, but were too sleepy to stir. After becoming accustomed to the noise of the cow-carts we have learned to sleep through anything. Did you walk out this way and do you know who set the blossomy bough by our window, and if it was intended for Polly or me?”

“Ought I to tell if I do know?”

“Certainly, how else can we smile on the one who desires our favor?”

“Very well, I will tell you some time,” he added.

Patty gave him a swift look wondering exactly what that meant, then she laughed lightly. “I fancied it might be Don Felipe, you know,” she said in an undertone.

“The little man in the elegant waistcoat and riding boots?”

“The same. He is a magnificent don with oodles of pesetas and would you think it? He came over on horseback to-day, though he often comes with a coach and four. The relations between Paulette and me are strained already on his account, as we both pine for his collection of antique jewels. I wish I had not thought of the jewels just now, for I am instantly seized with a feeling that I am neglecting my opportunities by not going over to talk to him. I shall have to leave you.” And in another moment she had joined the group among whom were her sister and Don Felipe.

There seemed no wearying the dancers and their number was soon increased by a company from another village. The young men of this pueblo bore a tall slim tree from which all the branches had been cropped. It showed only a small tuft of green leaves at the very top, but was decked out with ribbons and flowers. The girls followed, jangled their tambourines and sang the song of the day as they came down the road and into the garden, where the tree was set up.

Another supply of cake and wine was brought forth, the dancing became more and more exciting, though the watchers began to be weary, yet the lights in window and balcony were not extinguished till long after midnight, and even then the song of the dancers still echoed from a distance.

## CHAPTER VII

### THE INXANOS

Robert Lisle walked home under the great stars that evening with a new sense of restlessness at heart. He was rather a lonely young man, feeling something of the alien in his grandfather’s house, yet having cut loose from the ties which bound him to his native land. His grandfather did not hesitate to remind him that he was not a Sterling in name and that therefore he could not expect that inheritance which might have fallen to him had he been born heir to a son of the house. The old man was not unkind, but he was not a companionable person. He had given his grandson the education which befitted his station, had equipped him with the profession the boy preferred, and had allowed him a place in his home whenever he should choose to accept his hospitality. Having done this much he felt that he had fulfilled his duty, and asked little in return. On one subject, however, he had expressed a decided opinion: Robert should marry money, should choose a wife of good family as well. Robert had tacitly accepted the arrangement in not differing with his grandfather when the subject was brought up, but to-night the idea suddenly became distasteful. Instead of Miss Moffatt, whose neutral tints were of mental as well as of physical quality, he saw a merry laughing witch of a maid, whose eyes could be meltingly tender or full of mischief, who, while she appeared only a little less than a trifler, nevertheless, had depths as yet unstirred in her nature.

He had had glimpses of this underlying the exterior; he knew all that her gay laughter hid. He had looked below the surface. The glad lady! How well the name suited her. How well she would love once she had given her heart. But—. He stood still in the road and looked back over the long white way, then with an impatient fling he turned and trudged on. “What’s the use,” he muttered. “I can’t afford it. I must not think of it. A penniless, struggling fellow, what have I to offer a girl? No, I must not think of it. Moreover, there is the old don, and if not, the other fellow whom she evidently favors.”

Meanwhile Don Felipe had ridden away, and out in the patio Tomás was teaching Patty the jota, while Doña Martina called to them from above, “Come in, come in, you scandalous pair,” she cried. “Don’t you know it is past midnight? Haven’t you had dancing enough?”

“We have only seen it, we haven’t taken part in it,” replied Patty, halting in her practice of the step. “We’ll come in presently, Tina. There may never come another day like this. Why grudge us a few moments?”

“This isn’t to-day, as you call it; it is to-morrow.”

“Then consider what a triumph. It ought to be put on record. I have beguiled one Spaniard into catching up with mañana.”

“Paulette has gone in,” Doña Martina said after watching the two for a few moments, “and I am so tired and so cold waiting here.”

“We’ll stop at once,” decided Patty. “Poor old Tina, I didn’t realize I was keeping you up, and it does warm one up so to dance the jota that I forgot you might be cold. I am a selfish pig. I’ll come right in, dear. Buenas noches, Tomás. Muchas gracias. It has been lots of fun, hasn’t it?”

“Shocking! Awful badth form,” returned Tomás, laughing.

Patty with a giggle of delight at the reply, ran in to find Paulette already fast asleep, and the house dark and silent. She, herself, however, was in no mood for slumbers. Her blood was tingling with excitement of the dance. She opened her window and went out on the balcony. The flowering branch set there that morning was withered and drooping. Patty looked at it thoughtfully. “Poor lad,” she murmured, “and he hasn’t two cents to rub together.” She leaned over the stone railing. Tomás was smoking a last cigarette before going to bed; the scent of it was borne upward with the odors from the garden beds. “It wouldn’t be so dreadful to live in Spain, to be near dear old Tina to—” Her meditations stopped short. Tomás was just below. She leaned over and dropped one of the flowers from her hair. Tomás caught it and looked up. “Shocking! Awful badth form,” said Patty mockingly, and disappeared within.

In spite of a waking resolution to fix his thoughts unwaveringly upon the quiet Miss Moffatt, Robert Lisle felt himself unresistingly drawn toward the Estradas house the next evening. “I was lonely; I had to come,” he said as he shook hands with Doña Martina.

“My dear man, you don’t have to make an excuse for coming. You know you are always welcome,” returned Doña Martina.

Robert flushed up. “But I come so often,” he stammered.

“Why shouldn’t you? Aren’t we birds of a feather who should flock together in a strange land? I’d feel very much hurt if you didn’t come often. The girls will be down directly. That witch of a Patty has some notion about going to the sea-caves to-night, a pretty rough walk, but there’s no doing anything with her once she sets her heart on a thing. She insists that she wants to visit the inxanos.”

“And what are they?”

“Here she comes; she will tell you.”

“I’ve changed my dress and put on thick shoes, Tina,” the girl began. “Oh, Mr. Lisle, you must go, too. It is just the sort of thing you would like. We are going to see where the inxanos live.”

“I’ve just been asking about them. Who, or what are they?”

“They are the little beings who build the caves, tiny creatures who live underground. I am delighted that the Spaniards have tales of something besides saints; I had enough of those at the convent. There are not only inxanos but xanos, and they pronounce their name as though it were written Shaughnessy, though they use an x instead of an sh. The inxanos are a sort of genii; they give you things when you ask them, but they, alas, like the genii generally require you to do something in return. I have written three wishes on a piece of paper and I am going to deposit the paper in one of the caves. Don’t you want to make three wishes, too?”

“I certainly do.”

“Oh, I knew you wouldn’t despise my fancy. You mustn’t tell your wishes, you know, or they may not come true. The inxanos are very particular. Tomás has been telling me the most delightful tales of all these strange creatures. What I couldn’t understand, Tina translated for me. I must warn you of the xanos; they are water nymphs who haunt the forest streams and springs. They are a sort of Lorelei who charm the young men that happen to pass that way. I should hate to think of your disappearing head first into some stream to-night on account of the tricksy little things, so be very careful that you don’t linger.”

As Robert looked at her he thought it was not only the xanos who could lure a man from the path of duty, for try as he would to keep the image of Beatrice Moffatt before him, it was so cast into the shade by the sparkling face before him, that the image appeared but a shadowy ghost, a pale and intangible memory.

“I must warn you, too, of the huestos,” Patty went on. “They are the evil spirits who work mischief to the utter destruction of human kind. Now, come in and write your three wishes. I have at last persuaded Polly to do hers, but I had an awful time to work upon her imagination sufficiently. She is so unsentimental, that Polly. When I had persuaded her to do it, she couldn’t make up her mind what to write. I knew in a minute.”

“Will you tell me if your wishes should chance to come true?”

“Will you promise to do the same?”

“Yes, I promise.”

“Then—Oh, I don’t know—Yes, I will tell, but I must do so in my own good time.”

“And when will that be?”

Patty laughed and shook her head. “You mustn’t pin me down. Remember it was you who said some day, when I asked you to tell me who fastened the blossomy branch by the window.”

“If you will let me walk with you to the caves I will tell you this very night.”

“Anything to have my present curiosity satisfied,” said Patty, with one of her most saucy smiles. “Come in. Polly must have made up her mind by this time, though we are not going just yet, for Tomás has promised to sing us some of those weird Asturian songs of his. He is perfectly adorable when he sings them.”

Robert followed her upstairs to where Tomás was softly playing a few chords on his guitar. The three wishes were soon written out and the paper tucked away in Robert’s waistcoat pocket.

“Now for the music,” said Patty. “Those songs of yours are just suited to out of doors, Tomás, so I think we’d better go out on the balcony. Sing that funny little song about Perequito, and that other, Dame la mano, paloma.”

Tomás twanged out his accompaniments and began the curious little melodies of the province, songs which ended in a long upward soaring note, suggesting a call of the mountaineers. They were generally in a minor key and uncertain in measure, but even Robert Lisle was obliged to confess them charming.

“No one but a true Spaniard can give them perfectly or even acceptably,” declared Doña Martina. “All imitations are absolutely colorless. We had some friends in Paris who tried them, but they did not sound like the same thing. Very little of the Asturian music is written, but Tomás has heard it all his life and knows it without notes.”

“Now for the caves,” said Patty. “It will be slower walking at night, and we’d better start, don’t you think?”

The night was soft and still, the mountain tops were faintly outlined against a starry sky, but were lost to view where the winding woodpath was entered. Tomás carried a lantern, yet they often stumbled over the rough places. “It is such a foolish thing to do at night,” said Doña Martina, pettishly. “I do hope, Patty, that you will not undertake any more such adventures.”

“What is the use of coming to Spain if you can’t have adventures,” Patty made reply. “You needn’t come when I feel the call of the wild, Tina.”

“But I have to. What would people think if I allowed you to go around unchaperoned?”

“Juan could go with me; he wouldn’t mind in the least.”

“As if he had time to follow your erratic movements. This coming out to-night is a perfectly foolish thing. I don’t see the sense of pretending you believe in inxanos and such nonsense.”

“Oh, Tina, you haven’t any imagination, while as for myself, I always did love make-believe plays.” Leaving her sister to the guardianship of Don Juan, Patty hurried ahead with Robert Lisle, in entire disregard of Tomás’ beacon light.

“It isn’t dark under the stars,” she remarked to her companion.

“It could never be dark where you are,” he replied.

“What a nice speech, quite as if you were a real Kentuckian. Isn’t it now the time and place to tell of the blossoming branch? Who put it in the window?”

“I did.”

“For—Paulette?”

“For you.”

“Oh!” Patty suddenly felt a little afraid—of what? She didn’t stop to question, but in her inattention to the path, she unwarily stumbled against a stone in the way and gave a sudden cry.

Robert caught her hand to steady her, and he held it for a moment. A mad fire seemed to race through his veins and he said unsteadily, “I am not taking good care of you. I am afraid you have hurt yourself, when I would rather have been battered to bits than that you should feel the slightest pain.”

“Oh, it was nothing,” Patty answered faintly. “I think—I think maybe we’d better wait for the light.”

He released her hand and they stood silent till the others came up. “Oh dear,” Patty was saying to herself. “Oh dear!”

The caves were not much further ahead, for the splash of waves beating upon the sands was now heard distinctly. Doña Martina refused to cross the stretch of pebbly beach which lay between the wooded path and the sea. “Juan and I will wait here while you silly children go ahead,” she said.

“I’ve just thought,” said Patty to Robert, “that I’ve written my wishes in English. Do you suppose the inxanos understand anything but Spanish?”

“Genii ought to understand everything,” returned he. “Mine are in English, too.”

“Well there is some comfort in that, for if they can’t read mine, neither can they yours, and if you are denied your wishes so shall I be. There is the moon, Tomás; we shall not need the lantern. Leave it with Juan and Tina; it is much more romantic without it.”

They reached the caves without difficulty. Strange structures they were; great archways rising each side the opening to the beach and obstructing a clear view of the sea till one had passed under or beyond them. “What wonderful little people the inxanos must be to build such places,” said Patty’s companion as they solemnly deposited their wishes in a crevice of the caverns.

“We shall think them more wonderful if they grant our wishes,” she said. Then she touched Tomás softly on the arm. “Come,” she said to him in Spanish.

He followed willingly and they disappeared around the corner of the rocks. “Let us explore a little further,” said Patty. “I don’t want to go just yet. You know the place well, don’t you, Tomás?”

“Perfectly.”

“Then let us watch the moon on the water for a few minutes. If they get tired they can go on. They know it is light enough for us to find the way without the lantern. Do you mind, Tomás?”

“When you have given me the flower from your hair?”

“Don’t get sentimental. That was only a little joke. You see you are a sort of brother and I can ask you to do things because we seem both to be of one family.”

“Yes, that is it of course. You have no other reason?”

“Certainly I have not. Now, Tomás, don’t try to look heart-broken. You know it is simply pretense.”

“How do I know? I am not at all sure.”

“Oh, yes you are, and if you are not you must be, for I am perfectly sure we don’t want to spoil our fun by any silliness. Just peep around the rocks and see if they have started yet. If they have we will follow. I hope the inxanos will be good to us. You see I am doing this—I mean I wanted to wait here as a sort of propitiation to the inxanos, so they would know I am really in earnest. Do you think there could be any inxanos there in that cave? I see some little shadowy thing.”

Tomás fell in with her mood. “Shall we go see?”

“If you like. They do appear to people, you know.” This conversation carried on partly in Spanish and partly in English was not perfectly understood on either side, but each managed to get the gist of what the other was saying.

They clambered down the crags to enter the caves, a lofty aperture in the rocks, open on two sides. The shadowy form resolved itself into gray stone as they approached. They passed through to the pebbly-strewn stretch of sand on the further edge of which they had left Doña Martina. The four were standing there parleying.

As the two figures came out from the cave Doña Martina called to them, “We are going.”

“So are we,” returned Patty. “Don’t wait. We will follow.” And the party took up its tramp back through the woods by the winding stream.

Robert Lisle did not tarry when the house was reached, but cutting his adieux short at the gate, strode off down the road.

Patty looked after him pensively. “It was so romantic,” she remarked. “I wish Don Felipe had been there.”

“Patty,” her sister began.

“What, dear,” said Patty sweetly.

“I am displeased with you.”

“Dear me, what have I done?”

Her sister took her arm and walked with her to the house. The others had gone on ahead. “Don’t you know it wasn’t the thing for you and Tomás to go flocking off by yourselves in that way?”

“I asked him.”

“So much the worse; it was very marked.”

“And who was there to criticize?”

“Mr. Lisle and Paulette.”

“Oh, they don’t count. When you go seeking inxanos you can’t be conventional, Tina. There is no sense in getting vexed over a little thing like that. Wait till I do something really outrageous.”

“Which I suppose you are bound to do if you keep on.”

“Rather than disappoint you, I will try, my dear. At present I don’t feel the least ‘compuncted,’ as Tomás said to-day. He is getting on, that Tomás.”

“You mean—?”

“With his English. We begin to understand each other at last.”

“Oh, Patty, why will you?”

“What will I?”

“Flirt with Tomás.”

“My dear girl, just because I say we are beginning to converse intelligently you put that construction upon the matter. Such a suspicious old gooseberry as you are.”

“I wish I could believe there were no grounds for my suspicion.”

“There aren’t any. If I am to flirt at all it will be with Don Felipe. He is well seasoned and can stand it. Good night, beloved. Don’t lie awake thinking over my peccadilloes. They are really the most harmless in the world. Good night,” and Patty flitted up the stairway in the wake of Paulette.

“Did you have a pleasant walk home?” Patty asked her friend.

“No,” was the reply. “Your Englishman was as mopey as an owl. He knows no French and is none too talkative in English. Why did you permit him to walk with me when he does not know my language?”

“I thought a change would be good for him,” returned Patty.

“But not for me.”

“For you, too, perhaps. Why don’t you teach him French? He ought to know it.”

“No, thank you, I have all I can do with Spanish.”

“So I think have I,” responded Patty. “One would have to be very fluent to direct a houseful of servants properly, wouldn’t one?”

Paulette vouchsafed no answer to this, and Patty saw that she was none too well satisfied with her evening.

## CHAPTER VIII

### A ROMERIA

This being the season of the year for fiestas and romerias one of these was always in prospect even though Don Juan suggested only such as might be most interesting. That at the little old town of Celorio promised certain unusual features and all prepared to go.

“What is the difference between a romeria and a fiesta?” asked Patty.

“A romeria is a pilgrimage, properly speaking; a fiesta is simply a feast day in honor of some special saint or some particular Madonna,” Don Juan told her. “Many pilgrims go to the romeria of Covadonga on account of the miraculous image there which the faithful regard with much veneration. A fiesta in our little village may be a very simple affair; a romeria is more important, for it brings visitors from miles around. It has been a great many years since I went to Celorio, but Tomás says the romeria there has lost none of its interesting features and that there will be a great many promisers this year.”

“Promisers? And what are they?”

“They are those who, during some illness of theirs or of someone near and dear, promise a white robe to the Virgin if they recover. I will not spoil the effect by telling you more. That is enough to make you understand what you will see. The very devout do many such things.”

“What other things are done?”

“Sometimes a very strict and wealthy lady will mortify the flesh by promising to wear only a certain color for so many weeks or months. The more unbecoming the color the greater the sacrifice. Purple is often chosen as being very trying to a sallow skin,” Doña Martina remarked.

“I’m afraid,” said Patty with a smile, “that I’d never get into heaven if it depended upon such a sacrifice to my vanity. I’d look a fright in purple, wouldn’t I, Tomás?”

This young man brought suddenly into the conversation from a brown study into which he was plunged, hurriedly replied, “Shocking, awful badth form,” that being the readiest English which came to him at the moment. Then, by the laugh which went up, perceiving that he had made the wrong reply, he asked, “What didth you say, Mees Pattee? I didth not hear correctly.”

“I asked if you thought I would look well in purple.”

“You wouldth look well in anything,” responded Tomás with a bow, and so redeemed his reputation for gallantry.

“There will probably be no place to get lunch at Celorio,” said Doña Martina, “so we must take something with us, and our romeria will be in the nature of a picnic, for after the service at the church we can go to the playa and have our lunch. Celorio is directly on the sea.”

“What fun that will be,” said Patty. “I shall like it better than going to a fonda, though that is a good experience, too. Is Celorio a pretty place?”

“It is very old and interesting. The church is of the tenth century and there is an old monastery attached, with a pretty garden.”

“And is it still used by the monks?”

“No, like many another it has passed out of the hands of the old Benedictines who used to possess it, and now it belongs to some friends of Juan’s who have bought it for a summer home. If any of them happen to be there we can probably go through it. You will like to see the garden, I am sure.”

“I’d like to see it all. Tell me some more about the romeria.”

“A very peculiar and ancient dance is given, a strictly religious one, which is called the danza prima because of its great antiquity, for no one seems to know when and how it originated. It is put into practice each year when the figure of the Virgin is borne from the church. Then the girls from the village sing their weird little song and dance the danza prima, the step of which is taken backward.”

“It must be the queerest thing.”

“It is very quaint and very individual.”

“Have you asked Mr. Lisle to go with us?” said Patty suddenly.

“No, but I shall do so, or you can when you see him.”

“When I see him? Do you realize that he has not been here for, let me see—three days?”

“And why?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Sulky, probably.”

“Again, why?”

“Oh, well, just because. Don’t ask me to keep track of all the moods into which our young men fall. After all, elderly men are much more satisfactory. One can usually trace their seeming peevishness to a fit of indigestion or a desire for a smoke. Perceive Tomás, for example; he has been as one in a trance all the morning. Just now when he left the room he fairly staggered with dreaminess.”

“It is all your fault, after your capers last night.”

“My capers! Goodness, Tina, one would think me an huesta or some other evil thing. Don’t be silly. Did you never play with two boys at the same time, I’d like to know? It seems to me I have a dim recollection of your having gone to a dance at home on one occasion, when you started forth with one individual of a fair complexion and came home with a dark-haired escort, unless someone spilt hair-dye on his head on the way back.”

“Patty, how did you—”

“How did I find out? I was peeping from the window when you came in and I saw—”

“Never mind,” said her sister hastily. “You see I’d had a little tiff with Juan and we made up that night. It was quite a different thing, for it was a very serious matter with us.”

Patty hugged her knees and rocked back and forth enjoying her sister’s discomfiture. “And how do you know it isn’t serious with me?” she asked.

“What is?”

“Oh, all this,” Patty replied indefinitely. “At least it is this way; I don’t want to favor one young man above another, because I am breaking my heart over Don Felipe. When he comes galumphin along he doesn’t know that each beat of his horse’s hoofs goes Pitty Patty.”

“Silly.”

“I simply adore the way his hair doesn’t grow about his temples, and that gap in his teeth is so unique. You wonder what has been there, then you find yourself gazing at the one wobbly front tooth which is left and calculate how long it will last without dropping out. He affords so many interesting conjectures that it doesn’t make any difference what he says, for his personality is so attractive it makes up for all else. His teeth are such curios I suppose that is why he hangs on to them; he wouldn’t have anything so modern as a new set for anything. If he could only buy an old set, one that had belonged to George Washington or some celebrity, no doubt he would pay any price.”

“For a girl of twenty you are the most nonsensical child I ever saw. Will you never grow up?”

“I hope not. I’m sure I don’t want to. It is enough to see what mature years have done for my sister for me to desire to keep out of my majority as long as possible. Don’t remind me of the approaching time when I shall be free, white and twenty-one.”

“What about Robert Lisle? Shall I send him a note?”

“No, don’t let’s bother about him. I wish you wouldn’t bring him into the conversation just now when I am ecstasying over Don Felipe. Isn’t ecstasying rather a good word? You spoil my train of thought.”

“You really don’t want me to hunt up Robert Lisle? Tomás can stop at the fonda.”

“No, you needn’t, so far as I am concerned. If you want him you will have to affix him to your train. He doesn’t deserve to be asked after staying away three whole days. Now he can whistle for invitations from me.”

Doña Martina looked up with a smile. Patty seemed a little more emphatic than the occasion demanded. “Very well,” she returned. “We will trust to luck. If he comes we will ask him; if he doesn’t, we will not. We will leave it that way.”

Robert Lisle did not appear that day and the next was the one set for the expedition to Celorio where Our Lady of Carmen would be triumphantly borne forth in procession. The village, which one passed through from the railway station, was not large, but was charmingly situated. The space around the church was full of people coming and going. On one side stretched blue reaches of sea; on the other arose the Cantabrian mountains. Behind the church stood the monastery around which a fair garden blossomed within high stone walls.

Coming from the bright sunlight without, the church looked singularly dark and gloomy as one entered under the gallery for men, so that the two or three steps leading to the body of the church were only dimly discerned, but as one became accustomed to the dimness the very obscurity became a charm, and one could see the age-stained timbers, the quaintly carved capitols of the columns which supported the gallery, the grotesque vases in the chancel, which were now filled with flowers and were in the form of devils. They might well be of pagan origin, but none could tell how old they might be. The gleaming candle points at the altar gave the only light, and this was the more effective because of the dimness beyond, in which knelt upon the stone floor shadowy figures in black.

Don Juan’s party found a place on one of the few benches near the entrance, and presently through the low-arched doorway came a white-robed woman on her knees. She was followed by another, then after an interval, by two together. Following these came a mother and her two sons on their bare knees. Others appeared from time to time all making their way slowly down the stone steps and up the body of the church to the altar where the white robes were deposited at the feet of the Virgin. Then mass was said and the Lady of Carmen, preceded by the dancing village maids, was carried forth to the music of the ancient danza prima. Following her came the ramas borne by the worthiest young men of this and neighboring villages, then all who wished, carried tall candles and joined in the procession which passed around the church, to the noise of rocket bombs frequently sent off from the tower.

“What are they going to do now?” asked Patty as she watched the villagers circle around the huge pyramids of loaves, decorated with flowers.

“The girls will sing the song of the rama. It is rather a monotonous chant, and one gets deadly tired of it when it is kept up as long as it is liable to be, but it will probably interest you for a while,” Don Juan told her.

“And what becomes of the ramas?”

“The loaves are sold or given to the poor. Sometimes one person buys all and sells the bread for very little.”

“It is a sort of harvest home, isn’t it?”

“Yes, though here they make a religious ceremony of everything. They end up with a dance, however, and what begins a romeria ends a fiesta.”

“Where are you all?” asked Doña Martina, coming up. “We are going to have our lunch now. Tomás has gone to pick out a good place where we can be undisturbed. We’d better be walking down toward the shore.”

A quiet place was not hard to discover, and before long the little party was cosily ensconced under a big tree near the cliffs.

“This is the best chicken I ever ate,” remarked Patty. “I can’t see how Manuela does turn out such good things when I see her building that little fire of twigs on top of that stone hearth.”

“When a thing has been done in the same way for centuries, the manner of doing ought to become perfection,” replied Doña Martina.

“I suppose Manuela has the experience of generations to work with, for the methods have been handed down from mother to daughter who knows how long. Have some wine, Paulette? What would you like, Patty?”

“A jug of wine, a loaf of bread and Thou,” she quoted.

“Only for Thou, read Tomás,” her sister whispered. “Well, you have it all, for surely this wilderness were Paradise enow’.”

“You have left out the singing in the wilderness.”

“We had that awhile ago.”

The last remnants of the feast were bundled up and bestowed upon a lame beggar whom they met on their way back to the church, and then, as good luck would have it, Don Juan found that his friends, the owners of the old monastery, were at home, and to the little party the great gates were opened, gates behind which the girls had been trying to peep, for the clambering flowers which had reached the top of the wall, gave promise of more beauty within.

Through one corridor after another they were led by their obliging hosts. Many of the old cells remained just as they were when the old Benedictines pattered their prayers as they looked forth from the deep set windows; others had been altered to suit the needs of the family. Above the doors of the great sala were coats of arms, for here more than one great personage had been housed. A wide porch overlooked the pretty garden, and the fields beyond, belonging to the estate stretched away and away toward the mountains. A crumbling tower was pointed out as the oldest part of the building; a thousand years old, said their guide.

“Think of the old frales who lived here,” said Doña Martina in an awed tone. “Think of all that has happened since this was built. Doesn’t it give one a strange feeling to contemplate these gray walls and think how long they have lasted?”

“Can’t you fancy those Benedictine fathers walking in the garden below there, or sitting in their cells working over some beautiful old missal?” returned Patty.

“I suppose there was also a nunnery somewhere near,” remarked Paulette.

“No doubt, for the church would be the center of a settlement.”

“It gives one much more of a sense of the reality of all that old history to come to a place like this,” said Patty. “Where does this lead?” for their guide opened a small door and beckoned them to follow him. Patty was the first to step through and she found herself standing in a small enclosed balcony. She peeped through the lattice work and caught her sister’s arm. “Oh, do see where we are,” she exclaimed. They looked down and beheld the nearly deserted church; only a few kneeling figures still occupied it. The gorgeously bedizened figure of the Virgin shone out in the light of the candles still burning around the altars.

“The little gallery,” their host told them, “was used as a choir for the nuns who were placed behind the grating that they might not be seen by those below.”

“They could be heard though,” commented Patty, “and I daresay their singing was very sweet. That adds another interest to this rare old spot.”

The dancing was in full swing when they passed through the old gateway, leaving the scarlet geraniums and white lilies glorifying the sunlit places. The jovial notes of the jota called them to watch the pretty dance, and when at last they took their leave rocket bombs were still going up, and the sound of violin and drum announced that another dance had begun.

“It has been wonderful, this romeria,” said Patty, dreamily. “I feel as if I had made a real pilgrimage. Is it as wonderful at any of the fêtes in France, Paulette?”

Paulette was not willing to admit that they were any less interesting and discoursed volubly upon a Breton feast day which she remembered and which she declared to be much more picturesque because of the costumes worn.

The singing in the wilderness was furnished that evening when Tomás took his guitar into the garden and trolled forth some of the unwritten songs which they had not yet heard. Then he told them queer tales of the peasants and of the saints, of how in the time of a great drought a figure of the Virgin is carried from her own church to some other where she must stay till it rains. Sometimes the patron saint of some little chapel is given a change of residence in the same manner. “At one time long ago,” said Tomás, “there was a very great drought and the poor people became desperate. At last one peasant woman took by stealth the figure of a saint from a little chapel in her neighborhood. She hid it under a cloth and at a certain waterfall she gave it a good dousing which she thought this patron saint deserved. At once came a perfect torrent of rain, nearly carrying off woman and saint on their way back to the chapel. Ever since then the people call upon San Acisclo, as he is named, whenever rain is needed.”

“That is a lovely tale,” the girls agreed. “Tell us some more, Tomás. Tell us about the inxanos.”

“Oh, the inxanos do many things. Not only do they build the caves in which they live, but they carry on business. There was a beautiful lady inxana who did this, and there is a tale about her but I do not think it as interesting as some others. The tales are very numerous and some day perhaps I shall collect them.” He took up his guitar and began to sing a little love song. Overhead the stars were climbing down behind the mountains, the air was fresh and sweet with the odors from gardens and fields. It was very still, very beautiful. Patty’s thoughts drifted off to the old monastery, to the frales and religiosas. On just such nights they had watched the stars set behind these same immovable hills. She felt very small, very young, and she snuggled up close to her sister, who put a protecting arm around her just as she had done to the little baby sister in that old home garden of Kentucky.

## CHAPTER IX

### ONLY A DONKEY

For two or three days longer nothing was seen of Robert Lisle, but Don Felipe was much in evidence and Patty was enjoying herself hugely. First she was teasing her sister, secondly she was bewildering the old don, thirdly she was annoying Paulette. Such a combination of effects was greatly to Patty’s mind. She did not mean the least harm. She was simply bubbling over with the joy of living. Little Don Felipe’s pomposity gave her intense amusement; he was so candidly conceited, had such a way of swelling out his chest and strutting around “for all the world like a little bantam rooster,” Patty declared. He was not hard-hearted except when the matter clashed with his opinion, for opinionated he was to a degree, and no one could differ with him without bringing forth a burst of indignant protest. This Patty delighted to do and having made the little man “dancing mad,” as she expressed it, would go off into shrieks of laughter, then he would stalk away in would-be dignity only to return at the first word of flattery. That Patty knew well how to put her limited vocabulary to the best use, when it came to flattery, Tomás perceived, at first sulkily and then with pretended indifference, turning to Paulette for consolation.

There came a morning, however, when Patty felt that a respite from Don Felipe would be rather an agreeable change, so she started up the road toward a certain spot which Tomás had pointed out to her in one of their walks. It was removed from the carretera, so that only by certain twistings and turnings along narrow paths could one reach the silent shrine of Nuestra Señora de Piedad, whose tiny chapel closely embowered in the protecting branches of tall trees, stood at an angle of the wooded ways. Unfortunately for Patty’s desire for solitude, fate sent two knights her way and turned the current of her meditations. Just as she was about to leave the carretera she espied a wretched-looking beggar beating his donkey, for in Spain a beggar may ride and has not the least shame of his profession. It is more noble to beg than to work and no disgrace to be poor. The tender-hearted Patty, who was nothing if not fearless, stopped short at sight of the poor beast’s affliction. “What are you beating that donkey for?” she demanded fiercely.

The man muttered something under his breath and then whined out a petition for alms in the name of Mary.

“‘WHAT ARE YOU BEATING THAT DONKEY FOR?’”

“Not a perrono will I give to a man who treats his beast so,” said Patty. “I should think you would be ashamed to beg, anyhow, a great strong man like you. What has your donkey done that you should abuse him? He looks thin enough, goodness knows.”

“He is an obstinate beast,” replied the man; “he threw me off in the dust.”

“I don’t blame him for being an obstinate beast with such a master,” returned Patty with spirit, “and I am glad he threw you off, poor creature.”

The man cast a baleful glance at her and fell to belaboring the donkey with redoubled energy. “Oh dear, oh dear!” Patty wrung her hands and looked right and left for someone to appear to whom she could appeal. Then out of a cloud of dust suddenly issued a horseman, a little spruce old man on a black horse. “Don Felipe!” cried Patty, eagerly.

“Señorita!” exclaimed Don Felipe drawing up short. “What is the matter?” he asked as he alighted.

“This man is beating his donkey unmercifully, and will not stop.”

Don Felipe smiled. “Only a donkey, señorita. You are too tender-hearted. The man is but a beggar and is not fit for you to speak to. Here,” and he threw the man a copper which was received obsequiously and with whining thanks.

“Won’t you tell him not to abuse his donkey?” begged Patty. “It has to work hard and looks so thin.”

“What would be the use, my dear young lady? As soon as our backs were turned he would do it again; it is the way of these people; they are ignorant and one must make some difference between man and beast. No doubt the man is likewise hungry. Come, my dear young lady, let us go on toward the village and leave this wretched beggar.”

“I am not going to the village,” said Patty determinedly.

“And may I not accompany you on your walk? Surely you will not go far alone.”

“I shall go a little further,” said Patty evasively.

“On an errand of mercy? Ah, yes, you are always like that, so tender-hearted. Then I shall go with you. I cannot permit a lady to be alone upon the carretera.”

But Patty did not budge, she simply looked at the donkey which the beggar was preparing to mount. “If I could only buy him,” she murmured. “Are donkeys expensive?” she asked.

“Very cheap,” Don Felipe told her. “But this is laughable. What would you do with a scrubby beast like that? Fancy your sister and brother when you should appear with your purchase.”

Patty made no reply. She had not a penny with her and was helpless in the face of such superior scorn. Don Felipe waited with ill-concealed impatience. It was not the correct thing for a young lady to do such wayward things. It was strictly unconventional to start off unaccompanied, in the first place, and he would see that she went home properly escorted, even though it meant an exercise of his legs to which he was not accustomed.

But this necessity was obviated by the approach of another actor in the drama, for who but Robert Lisle should suddenly alight from Victor’s cart which was on its way to Ribadesella.

“Oh, Mr. Lisle!” Patty ran toward him. “I am so glad it is you. I know you will try to make this man promise not to beat his poor little donkey. Such cruel blows and it is so thin, the poor patient little creature. If I could only buy him I would do it in a minute, but I have no money with me.”

“It is the glad lady!” exclaimed the young man. “My dear Miss Patty, I have money with me. Would you like me to buy the burro?”

“Oh!” The lovely eyes, half filled with tears, cast him a grateful look. “Please, please. I know Tina and Juan will let me have him, and I have the money at home. I would be willing to go without anything if only I may have him.”

“But there is no need to do that, you see. I should like nothing better than to be the means of allowing him to exchange a hard master for a tender mistress,” said the young man. He stepped up to the beggar who cunningly perceived that it was to his profit to remain near by. “Cuanto?” said Robert, laying his hand on the donkey.

“One hundred pesetas,” answered the man, thinking to drive a fine trade.

“Bah!” exclaimed Robert, expressively, as he took out his purse. “I will give you forty and not a penny more.”

The man’s greedy eyes devoured the money, the sight of which was too much for his cupidity, and he held out the bridle of the donkey with one hand, extending the other for the cash.

Robert counted it out gravely, took the donkey by the bridle and led it over to where Patty stood.

By this time Don Felipe had remounted his steed and with a supercilious smile as watching the transaction. “Seeing that I am of no use I will go on and leave you to follow with your valuable purchase,” he said in an amused tone, and the next minute he was clattering along the road.

Patty gently stroked the donkey’s soft nozzle. “He will soon learn that there is such a thing as kindness in the world,” she said.

“I wouldn’t put too much faith in his good qualities; they can be nasty little beasts,” Robert told her.

“Because they are often so badly treated. I know this one will be good. You must let me pay for him, you know.”

“No, if you refuse to take him as a gift I shall keep him myself, and the beggar’s treatment of him won’t be a patch upon my abuse.”

“Tell that to the marines. I will take him if Tina will let me, but very likely she will not.”

“Why should you not accept from me a scrubby little donkey, worth less than eight dollars, as well as a silver cup, worth much more, from Don Felipe?”

“Because that is a horse of another color, or rather, I should say donkey. However, we shall see.”

“Do you want to take the burro home now?”

“No, I think I should first like to take him to the chapel of Our Lady of Pity where I was going. I shall ask her to bless him.”

“Is there a need? He has already been blessed by a lady of pity, though I could wish she would not confine her compassionate acts to donkeys.”

“There are donkeys and—”

“Donkeys, you would say. I admit that, but why be kind to one variety and cruel to another?”

“When was I cruel?”

“Didn’t you promise to go to the cave of the inxanos with me, and then only perform half of what you said?”

“I kept my promise. I said I would go with you, but I didn’t say I would come back in your company.”

“Oh, I see. It was the donkey in me which prevented my taking that in.”

“Please don’t cast reflections on the dear burros. They are really very clever.”

“And I am not?”

Patty laughed. “I can’t say that when you are so quick to draw conclusions. I had a good reason for not wanting to come home with you.”

“What was it?”

“I can’t tell you now.”

“Will you some day? On the day you tell me the wishes? By the way, when are we to look for our answers?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I shall have to ask Tomás about it. He knows a queer witch woman who tells him all sorts of curious things.”

“If I may inquire, how did you and the old don happen to be on the carretera in company with a beggar?”

“Oh, I was taking a walk. I met the beggar first. I was expostulating with him when Don Felipe came up. He is a mean old curmudgeon for he wouldn’t back me up about buying the donkey, and he hasn’t a drop of pity in his veins for he only laughed when I asked him to order the man not to beat his burro.” Her expressive face was very serious. “You were very good, Mr. Lisle. I haven’t thanked you for coming to the rescue. I might have known an American and a Kentuckian would do so. In fact, I was sure of it. Perhaps I have interrupted your morning’s excursion. Were you going far with Victor?”

“I wasn’t going anywhere in particular. There was a vacant seat in the cart and I thought I would go on to Ribadesella, perhaps, and come back by train. This is much more of an adventure. Your praise is very sweet and mine is all the pleasure. One doesn’t have an opportunity every day, even in Spain, to come to the aid of a lady in distress. Do we turn off here?”

“Yes, there is the chapel just ahead. I see someone there. Let us wait.”

The tiny chapel boasted a portico under whose shelter wayfarers might pause for protection from sun or rain, and incidentally invoke the good offices of the Virgin who smiled from her little shrine beyond the iron grating. On the stone floor of the porch a girl was kneeling with arms widely outstretched and face upturned.

“It is Perdita,” whispered Patty. “I wonder what she is asking for. Did you ever see such an earnestly beautiful face? I hope, oh, I do hope, she will get what she wants. She looks as if she wanted it so dreadfully. Now, she is going. Don’t let her see that we have noticed her.”

But Perdita did not turn her eyes as she arose from her knees, and, after making her reverence and devoutly crossing herself, she went in an opposite direction down a leafy road and was presently lost to sight.

“Now,” said Patty, “you can stay here and I will go and ask the Virgin to bless the donkey.”

“Are you a Roman Catholic?”

“No, but Guido is.”

“Guido?”

“Yes, that is the donkey’s name, I have decided. It is the Spanish for Guy and he does look such a guy, poor dear.”

She went to the chapel and knelt for a few minutes upon the stone floor, then she returned to her companion. “It is so lovely here that I always want to stay awhile,” she told him. “I like the way they have shelter and seats for the weary on these porches. Fasten Guido somewhere and come up on the porch. You can see the Virgin inside there. She is a very plain little person, for she is very ancient, and you can see she wears the Asturian dress. She seems such a nice, simple sort of body that I don’t wonder the peasants love her. You see,” she went on, after Robert had made his survey of the interior, “I have a great respect for the Roman Catholics, for I have lived with the sisters so long and they have told me many things. I know the stories of the saints by heart. Sometimes they used to bore me dreadfully, but after all I am glad to become acquainted with the legends of the church for they explain a great many things to you when you travel. I never dared to say how much I believed and how much I didn’t, but the dear sisters had faith enough for both. While I was at the convent I went always to chapel and am as much at home with the Roman Catholic services as with my own. Of course, here in Spain, one must be a Roman Catholic to be thoroughly respectable, but so far I have never had to discuss the question. Isn’t this a peaceful spot?”

There was no disputing the peacefulness. Far removed from the highway as the little chapel was, a stranger would come upon it quite unawares in its sheltering green. A small stream went singing upon its way near by; the birds called to one another from the grove; wild flowers nodded in the breeze. The far off creak of a cow-cart droned out once in a while from a distance.

“And you like it?” Robert turned to his companion. “You don’t find it wearisome, with no gayeties, no city sights? You don’t miss social entertainments?”

“Do you?”

“No, but I should think you would, glad lady.”

“That is where you are mistaken. Of course I like good times, and young companions. I like pretty gowns and all the whirl of entertaining and being entertained, but it isn’t everything. I’d far rather live the life we used to have with those I loved in the dear old home, with the neighbors we cared for and who cared for us, a visit to town once in a while, part of a winter, maybe, and the rest of the year the freedom, the peace, the joy of the country among green growing things, flying along down the country roads on horseback, sitting in the garden to watch the sunset, grubbing among the flowers. Oh!” She drew a long breath. “It is all over, what is the use of thinking and longing for what you cannot have back again? I shall try to be content wherever I am. There is too much misery in the world for one to whine who has enough.”

“That is a brave saying,” returned Robert, gravely. “The don and his palace do not loom up so largely then?”

“Dear me, no.” She gave a little laugh. Robert looked at her inquiringly.

“I am just thinking,” she said, “of what a good time Polly must be having with me away. I badger her to death, and his donship, too. I think he is disgusted with me for this morning’s actions.”

“He has poor taste, then. Do you think that Miss Paulette would like to be Mrs. Don?”

“I don’t know. A girl like that doesn’t wish to be left behind in a race. It may be she simply wants to prove her powers, yet, Polly is rather a canny person, I am beginning to think. I am fond of her but her French thrift does crop up once in a while and a practical marriage would have no fears for her. What a nice comfortable time they are all having, to be sure, Tina and all of them. The opinion that sister has of me is appalling.”

“I imagine it perhaps, a case of John Smith’s opinion of himself, his friends’ opinion, and the real John Smith. I fancy your real self is pretty well hidden under an assumption of character which belies you.”

“Is that flattery or not?”

“You just said your sister had an appalling opinion of you.”

“Then I begin to see the compliment glimmering through the obscurity of the setting. From certain signs which may be diagnosed as the pangs of hunger I think it is time to go back. Moreover, I am sure Guido ought to have a good and sufficient meal and be given a thorough cleaning. I wonder why the Lord bestowed anything so ludicrous and at the same time so heart-rending as a donkey’s bray upon the poor creatures, and is it because of that they are always objects of derision?”

“That is a puzzling question, and one for which I doubt if any answer can be found.”

“It will be hot on the carretera, but I have an umbrella and we can keep in the shade wherever there is any. That is one of the advantages of this delightful climate, no matter how hot the sun is one can always be comfortable in the shade.”

They trudged back over the dusty carretera. Few people were encountered, though the women were working in the fields and by the singing stream a company of laundresses were still at work rubbing their wash upon the stones.

Don Felipe had recounted the story of the donkey, so that Master Guido’s appearance was not unexpected, but at Patty’s recital of the tale her sister entirely sympathized with her and pledged herself to petition her husband that Guido be allowed to become Patty’s property.

“He will not grudge the poor little creature food and shelter,” Doña Martina said, “but whether he will think it proper for you to accept him from Robert Lisle is another thing.” However, Robert made much of the relationship, and upon these grounds Patty was allowed to accept the gift. But that was not till the following day. Don Juan was busy with guests when Guido arrived, so that Patty handed her charge over to the gardener, who promised to give him proper care.

## CHAPTER X

### SANTA MARIA MARINA

The guests from Ribadesella were a stately old gentleman and his widowed daughter, a handsome young woman picturesquely wrapped in the mourning veil it is the custom in Spain for women to wear. It combined shawl and head covering, being an immense square of soft veiling which was draped around head and figure with graceful effect. Don Tomás was not at home, Doña Martina was busy with household matters, Paulette was giving her attention to the young widow, Señora Campos, while Don Juan was entertaining her father, Don Amable, being assisted in the performance by Don Felipe.

“Bother!” exclaimed Patty, after a brief colloquy with her sister. “Strangers are here. Will you stay and see them, Mr. Lisle?”

“Shall I not be in the way? I think I would better go on unless I can be of some use,” responded her companion.

“Do stay,” begged Doña Martina. “Tomás is off somewhere. The cook has a toothache and has her face tied up with a black rag. She is invoking all the saints to come to her aid, but will not resort to any reasonable means of relief. I shall have to send Anita into the kitchen to help, so Patty, if you will give an eye to the table, Mr. Lisle can go up and help Juan talk to the men. A new arrival will make them forget to wonder why our meal is late.” She bustled off, leaving Patty and the young man alone.

“We have our orders,” said Patty. “Mind you talk nicely to Don Amable. He speaks a little English, I believe, and then there is the handsome widow whom you can try your Spanish on. What you can’t say in words you can make up in telling glances.”

“The prospect positively scares me,” rejoined Robert, pulling out his handkerchief to fan himself in pretended agitation.

“Is this yours?” Patty stooped to pick up a sealed letter, her quick eye taking in the superscription on which read: “Miss Beatrice Moffatt.”

Robert took the letter mechanically, held it in his hand and looked at it gravely for a moment. “Yes, it is mine,” he answered. “I meant to post it this morning, but there is no hurry.” And he slipped it into his coat pocket, then went upstairs.

“Now, who is Miss Beatrice Moffatt?” said Patty to herself. “I never heard of her before.”

The visitors from Ribadesella had come to invite Don Juan and his friends to the coming fiesta of Santa Maria Marina, it being the event of the season for the little seaport, and, having given their invitation, taken their meal, and made many high-flown and elaborate speeches, they took their departure.

“Don Amable is a nice old chap,” Patty remarked, “but I don’t think his name suits him with that fierce moustache of his. Are we all going to the fiesta, and when is it to be, Juan? Where is Tomás? I want him to tell me about Santa Maria Marina.”

“Tomás has been gone since morning,” Doña Martina told her. “I believe he said he was going up the mountain.”

“May I not be your informant on the subject of Santa Maria Marina?” asked Don Felipe.

“Oh, I am not so curious but I can wait for Tomás,” replied Patty, lightly. “I couldn’t think of troubling you about so slight a matter. I hope he was properly snubbed,” she said afterward to Robert. “After the way he behaved about the donkey he can keep his old palace and all that is in it, for all me. Stingy old wretch, very likely he’d beat his wife as well as his donkey, if he had a wife.”

Robert beamed. “Then there’s only Tomás,” he remarked.

“Only Tomás? What on earth are you talking about?”

The young man made no reply except to draw from his pocket a letter which he deliberately tore into small pieces, then he stooped down, picked up a stick with which he dug a hole in the ground, and buried the bits therein, covering them up and stamping the earth down hard. “Peace be to her memory,” he said with a smile as he brushed the earth from his hands.

“The quiet girl’s. Let’s talk about something else, the fiesta, for instance.”

“I’d rather talk about ‘the quiet girl,’ as you call her. Who is she? Miss Beatrice Moffatt?”

“How do you know?”

“I saw the name on the letter.”

“And remembered?”

Patty flushed up. “Well, it wasn’t so long ago that I saw, just before lunch, and one doesn’t have to have an unusual memory to recollect that far back.”

“But that it should have made an impression at all.” Robert beat the earth from the little stick he held and looked down thoughtfully.

“Oh, well, you see—” Patty strove for a proper excuse, “one comes in contact with so many Spanish names, you know,” she went on rapidly, “that when an English one meets your eye it makes an impression.”

“I see; a very good explanation. You wouldn’t be interested in Miss Moffatt. She is as unlike you as it is possible for anyone to be. She is like a neutral day, such as we had yesterday, while you resemble such a day as this, all sunshine and color and light. Miss Moffatt is a drab day, sky, earth, sea all one tint, no light and shade in it, not weepy, only quiet gray.”

“Such days are very restful sometimes.”

“Yes, but one wouldn’t care for them all the year round. Once in a while, perhaps. I enjoy Miss Moffatt sometimes; she is such a good listener.”

Patty laughed. “You shall tell me more of her sometime. My curiosity is satisfied for the moment. I see Tomás coming and now we can learn all about the fiesta.”

“We?”

“Yes, why not?”

“Oh, I shall be charmed to learn.”

“Where have you been, Tomás?” queried Patty, as the young man came up. “Gone all day, no one knows where.”

“I’ve been up on the mountain,” Tomás answered. “There is a little chapel up there. I know the cura very well, and I like to visit him sometimes. He has been wanting me to come and look over some figures of the saints and one of Our Lady; they are very old and the paint is quite worn off. He wished me to see if perhaps I could restore them.”

“And can you?”

“I think so; he will send them down.”

“Come into the garden and tell us about the fiesta at Ribadesella. We are all going. Don Amable and Doña Elvira have been here, and we are invited to their house to lunch. The town’s people keep open house, we hear, so the more the merrier, they said, or words to that effect. Come over to the chestnut tree, it is lovely there now.” They passed on and as they turned into the garden path someone came along the little road beyond; it was a peasant girl who stopped, looked, and then went hurriedly on.

At the same moment Tomás halted. “Perdita,” he said under his breath. “It is Perdita.”

“Is that Perdita?” asked Patty, over her shoulder. “She is such a pretty girl. We saw her at the chapel of our Lady of Pity this morning, but she did not see us. Does she live near there?”

“No, but she has a friend who does. Perdita lives in a village further up the mountain.”

“Then she is going home now, I suppose. She seems such a nice, ladylike sort of girl, quite unlike a peasant.”

Tomás made no reply, but presently launched forth into an account of the fiesta to which they were going. “Don Roberto accompanies you?” he said questioningly, looking at Robert.

“You are going, aren’t you?” Patty asked the young Englishman. “You are included in the invitation, you know.”

“Then I will go with pleasure.”

“And we shall have Don Felipe, I suppose. How about yourself, Tomás?”

“I? If you will excuse me, I think I will not go. I have seen the fiesta many times, and you will have an abundance of escorts without me.”

Patty thought he looked a little troubled. She wondered why. Could it be on Robert Lisle’s account? “Oh, if you don’t want to go,” she said aloud.

“This time I think I will not,” he answered without further excuse, and Patty made no protest. “If he wants to stay at home by himself, let him,” she said to herself.

An early start had to be made in order to take the only train which would reach the small town in time for the ceremonies. It was found to be a quaint little place, full of picturesque corners, archways, windows and doors. Just now it was ablaze with the red and yellow Spanish colors. When all else in the way of decoration failed a yellow bed-quilt was pressed into service. A handsome bed-quilt is a necessity in the eye of the Spanish housewife, and a yellow one is not to be despised since it lends itself to decoration on such occasions. Strips of red and yellow cloth waved in the breezes, banners floated from the windows, over the window ledges were hung anything red or yellow which was available.

“The church is scarcely worth seeing,” Don Juan told them, “but the town is and the little harbor.”

It was market day, although Sunday, and the square was full of market people, in vociferous tones crying their wares. There was no sign of a procession as yet.

“Shall we go to the church?” asked Don Juan, “or shall we go down by the quay and see what is going on there?”

“Oh, by all means the quay,” the girls decided. “There will be a second mass after a while and we can hear that.”

Down by the water’s edge the crowd was collecting, some leaning over the parapet to watch the flower-decked barges, some walking up and down, some standing in groups talking, rich and poor alike together. The little port was well situated and commanded a view of green hills, of a stretch of sandy beach and a bridge. Large and small crafts rocked on the waters of the bay; little rowboats plied back and forth.

At last there was a distant sound of music, the drone of a bag pipe, the tap of a drum, the blare of trumpets. Everyone rushed to the corner of the square. It was not a very imposing procession, this upon land; a few priests, and acolytes with swinging censers, with but a handful of followers, made up the body of those who attended the rude little figure of the venerated Virgin. This was borne to the water’s edge under a canopy. A decorated barge was in waiting. In this embarked priests, musicians and acolytes, the Virgin occupying a place in the center, and soon the barge moved slowly out.

“There is Don Amable,” cried Patty. And at the same moment her own party was recognized by the gentleman and his daughter.

“You are going with us on our boat?” said Don Amable. “Certainly, certainly you are. There is plenty of room. We have been expecting you.” And with as much haste as the occasion admitted, they were urged on board the boat which, taking its turn, was now waiting. A number of other guests were already seated upon the garlanded boat and these were presented with due ceremony. Everything moves slowly in Spain and it was some time before the whole line of some two dozen boats and barges, was ready to move. The larger crafts followed close in the wake of that which carried the priests and the sacred wooden figure; next came the smaller boats, the little rowboats bringing up the rear. Slowly, very slowly, the procession moved around the bay under the bluest of skies and on the bluest of waters.

“I wonder if the little plain old Virgin in her ancient costume enjoys all this,” said Patty to her neighbor, Robert Lisle.

“She looked very contented, I thought.”

“Yes, didn’t she? I should think she would look forward to being brought out of that dingy old church into the fresh air. Some of the boats are really very pretty. That one which is rose-wreathed is quite fetching, and there is another all green and white which I like. Imagine seeing anything like this on Sunday in our Puritan land. I have seen fêtes in France, of course, but somehow these appear even more festive.”

“I think one’s own mood has something to do with it.”

“That may be,” said Patty, thoughtfully.

Arriving at the little beach, mass was said in the open air, then St. Mary of the Sea was borne again to her shrine, her presence being believed to bring a blessing to waves and tide.

In spite of Don Amable’s urgent invitation, Don Juan’s party did not return with the others to the house, but took their dinner at one of the little fondas, promising to see their Spanish friends later. “I have almost forgotten where the place is,” Don Juan confessed. “Let Don Felipe take the lead.” And Don Felipe, bursting with importance, pompously strode on ahead with Paulette. After many turnings and twistings they paused before an old building, mounted two flights of stairs and found themselves in a plain little fonda where lunch was served after some waiting. A big dog which had followed them from the street stood with wagging tail in the entry.

Robert Lisle looked at Patty with a smile. “Shall we let him stay?”

“Oh do,” she made reply. “Perhaps he belongs to someone who lives here; at any rate he is doing no harm.” So Master Dog was allowed to remain. Patty stroked his soft ears and spoke a few words to him after which he lay down, evidently quite encouraged by what she said. As they came out of the comedor the dog was feasting on a plate of broken pieces which had been set for him by one of the maids.

“You see,” said Patty, “he does belong in this house. Probably he came with someone who takes his meals here.” However, when at last they were ready to go, the dog having consumed a second plate of food started to follow them again. “Oh, we mustn’t let him, must we?” said Patty. “He might get lost. Dear doggie, although we feel quite flattered by your evident favor we cannot take you with us.” She turned to the mistress of the house who was passing through the entry: “Your dog wants to go with us. Perhaps you’d better keep him with you for awhile.”

“My dog!” The woman’s face dropped. “Is he not yours?”

“Not ours; no indeed.”

“And I have ordered Maria to give him two plates of dinner,” she exclaimed. “The beast!”

“Oh, never mind,” cried Patty, hurriedly taking out her purse and handing out a peseta; “that will pay for his dinner.”

“We don’t grudge him a little food,” said the woman, softening before this generosity, “but to steal in that way and impose himself upon us.”

“But it was so clever,” argued Patty, stroking the dog’s head as he stood looking from one to the other with wistful eyes. “He must belong to someone; he is far too nice a dog to be a stray, and I think he showed great cleverness to come in here with us.” All this was said in rather halting Spanish, but the woman understood and having been well paid, quite agreed with the señorita that it was a very clever dog.

“If I didn’t believe he would find his master,” said Patty to her companion, “I’d ask Juan to let us take him home.”

“And you already have Guido.”

“Yes, but you needn’t be jealous for Guido; he is in clover. Juan is negotiating for a donkey cart, and then his work will begin.”

“I can imagine what desperate burdens you will impose upon him. I can fancy your always walking up hill.”

“Just you wait and see. Now I know how strong the burros are I am going to make the most of Master Guido, though of course, I shall not want him overworked.”

They had promised Doña Elvira to take merienda with her, and therefore all turned in the direction of Don Amable’s house after some sauntering about the town. The place was gay enough now; merry-go-rounds were in lively competitions, vendors of sweets and balloons drove a good trade, and every house appeared to have emptied itself upon the streets. The principal houses were preparing for illumination and were thronged with guests. At Don Amable’s quite a company had gathered, and at four o’clock merienda was served, chocolate and cakes, wines and fruit, nuts and various sweets. Did the Inglesas prefer tea or coffee it could be offered, but the Inglesas preferred the excellent chocolate to the probably poor tea, declined cigarettes and partook of the appetizing little cakes.

Soon it was train time. Don Amable would see them to the station. The other guests with many a “Vaya V. con Dios,” “A los pies de V.” and “Beso á V. la mano,” bowed them out and they took their way through the quaint streets and under gray archways to the station, leaving the little wooden Virgin to the quiet of the dim church, but Don Felipe in the society of the handsome widow.

Tomás was not at home when they arrived, but Guido’s muzzle was thrust over the opening in the stable door and he gave a welcoming bray as he saw them approaching. The little village, however, seemed very quiet and more than ever afar from the haunts of men, with its sheltering mountains to keep off rough winds and its winding stream to feed its gardens.

“It is not like old Kentucky,” Patty observed to her sister, “but, after all, it isn’t a bad place to stay in and one could give the home touch to the house in time.”

Doña Martina gave a little sigh. “Yes, so one can, and I hope to, but when I think of living here a lifetime and perhaps losing you, Patty, it seems rather a desolate outlook.”

“Losing me?”

“Yes. I know I must in time, though if it should happen to be Tomás, we could be together as neighbors and as then it would not be so hard. There are only two of us left, and it would be hard to part.”

“But there is Juan.”

“Yes, but dear as he is, one does like one’s very own with whom one has been brought up, whose ways are the same, who understands something else than a Spanish point of view.”

“I see,” said Patty thoughtfully.

“Juan felt the same, no doubt,” Doña Martina went on. “I know he pined for these mountains, this very little village. I didn’t understand then why it was that I couldn’t make up for it all; now I do.”

Patty went up and put her arms around her sister. “Dear old Tina,” she said, “we mustn’t live apart; it wouldn’t do for either of us. I may be a wretched nuisance and an awful tease, but you are my all, Tina dear, and though I seem to conceal the fact sometimes, you are the most precious sister in the world.”

Perhaps it was because of this talk that Robert Lisle saw no more of Patty that evening, and that she elected to go off with Don Juan for a walk, leaving Robert to Paulette’s tender mercies. It is at least quite sure that the young man, when smoking his final pipe that evening, contemplated writing another letter to the quiet girl, and told himself that memories were the easiest things in the world to disinter, provided there were given sufficient cause for so doing. He did not finish his pipe, and it was not to Miss Moffatt that he gave his last waking thought.

## CHAPTER XI

### GIPSIES

As if by common consent, Patty and Robert Lisle saw little of one another during the next few days. It was the season of the year when one fiesta was followed closely by another with a feria or two interspersed. The haying was over and this harvest was one which called men, women, and children into the field. Those too poor to possess a cow and cart, carried home their bundles of hay upon their heads, even the little children bearing as much as their powers would permit. It was not an infrequent sight to see grandmother, mother, and two or three children bowed under loads which nearly hid them from view. It was, therefore, not remarkable that a fiesta at the close of the haying harvest should be held in honor of the Madonna, who, for purposes best suited to her worshipers, was called Nuestra Señora del Henar, Our Lady of the Hay. As each little pueblo favored some special saint or Madonna, the country-side swarmed with gipsies, mendicants, halt or maimed, blind musicians and strolling players, all of whom were much in evidence whenever a fête or a fair was in progress.

Many were the tales told the Inglesas of miracles performed by the saints, tales which Patty declared were not more wonderful than those the nuns in France had related to her, and she in return would recount to Manuela or Anita or Consuelo the legends which she knew. In these they delighted, and she was looked upon as less of a heretic than had been supposed.

Especially did Patty enjoy Perdita’s stories, which had been told the young peasant girl by her old grandmother, whom Don Juan had treated so successfully, and there was scarce a day that Perdita did not appear, it might be with no better present than a bunch of wild flowers or a couple of new-laid eggs, but she always brought something. Don Juan, it may be said in passing, was acquiring such a reputation among the peasantry that he was obliged to set aside a certain hour in the day when he would receive his charity patients.

“I don’t see why he doesn’t hang out his sign and practise regularly,” said Patty to her sister.

“Oh, my dear, it wouldn’t be wise. A certificate legalizing him to do so would cost several hundred dollars and these poor people could never pay the fees he ought to ask. He would get nothing from most and those who could pay at all would think a peseta or two quite enough for a visit. Now, as it is, you see, they help out the larder with many a present, and in many ways make it easy for us. While Juan is here doing this special writing he’d better not practise regularly, for his book will be more profitable. When he gets quite strong again we shall see what is to be done.”

It was one morning just before the feast of the Hay that Perdita appeared with a small cheese for the Señor Doctor. Patty stopped on the way out. “Perdita,” she said, “I want to ask you about the gipsies. Are you in a hurry to-day?”

“No, señorita. But the gipsies have the evil eye and one must be careful, very careful. My grandmother tells me to avoid them.”

“Oh, but I want to see them. Did you never have your fortune told?”

Perdita hung her head. “No, señorita, but I should like to. One must have silver for them, you see, and silver is not so plentiful.”

“Tell me about your home. I should like to see where you live. Is it far?”

“It is perhaps two miles. We are not so badly off. We have our little house, some land, a cow, a pig, chickens. It is hard work for us to attend to all, but now the hay is in it will be easier.”

“Do you do all the work?”

“Most of it. The grandmother is getting old, yet she always is telling me I needn’t work so hard.”

“Why?”

“I do not know. She is mysterious sometimes.”

“Has she a hoard, do you think? Money saved?”

Perdita shook her head. “Of that I cannot be sure, but when a thing is needed there is always money for it. I have my Asturian dress, as handsome as any; it is of good stuff, and my ornaments, too, are not bad, my chain and brooch. Some day I hope I may have earrings of the old sort.”

“I noticed how fine you were the first time I saw you, and I said then you seemed superior to the rest. Your mother is not living?”

“No, señorita, she died when I was born.”

“And your father?”

“I do not know where he is. I have often asked my grandmother, but she does not like to talk of him. She tells me I have seen him, that my mother died a year after she was married and then my father took me in his arms and swore I should never come to want, and so I never have.”

“But how strange, if he be living, that he does not come to you.”

“I will tell you what I think, señorita. I think he has gone to America, to Cuba or Mexico, maybe, and that some day he will come back.”

“Yes, that might be very possible, so many do that.”

“It is what the señor doctor thinks, too, and so I look forward to the return.”

“How nice it would be to have him come back. He would, perhaps, give you fine clothes and build a nice house like other Americanos do who return to their villages. No doubt he is waiting to make a fortune for you. Of course you know his name.”

“Yes, it is Pedro. I was named Perdita because my father lost his wife when I came into the world. Perdita Gonzalez I am called.”

“Gonzalez is your father’s name?”

“No; I take my mother’s name. You know it is so done in Spain, at least the mother’s name is written last.”

“I remember that now. Then your father’s name is Pedro—what?”

“Pedro Ramon, my grandmother says.”

“You never write to him?”

“No; yet I can write, señorita, and read. I can embroider, too. That I do in the long winter evenings. I will bring you a piece of my embroidery.”

“You are too generous, Perdita, but I should like to see it. I notice that most of the Spanish girls embroider. I see them sitting in front of their doorways with their embroidery frames, and I like to watch them. Are you fond of reading? Perhaps we could lend you some books.”

Perdita’s brown cheek took on a slight tinge of color. “I have a friend who lends me books sometimes,” she said hesitatingly. “The cura will not always let me read them. He is very particular and there are but few books he approves. He says a woman does not need to read any more romantic and beautiful tales than the lives of the saints, but my friend says our good old padre is narrow minded and that while it used to be the fashion for women in Spain to be content with knowing little, to-day they are striving for knowledge, and many of them are so highly educated as to put to shame the women of other countries. I should like to be educated, señorita, but a peasant girl like me—” She stopped with an expressive gesture.

“You don’t seem in the least like a peasant girl, Perdita. Perhaps when your father comes home he will allow you to have a governess and to learn languages. If one knows languages and the literature of the various countries one is really well educated. Suppose I begin to teach you French or English. French would be more useful, perhaps. Would you like that?”

“Yes, señorita, I should like it very much, but—”

“You have not the time? An hour or even half an hour a day would do wonders.”

“It is not that, señorita, but I should not like to take your time.”

“Oh, my time is of no value, though if you feel that way about it, you can exchange with me and I will take Spanish conversation from you. Don Tomás is very good about helping us, but neither Mlle. Delambre nor myself like to call upon him too often. My brother-in-law says you speak very good Spanish.”

“Yes, señorita, my grandmother is particular that I should. She belongs to a good family; they have their coat-of-arms, but they became impoverished and, like many others, had to work in the fields. There is an old, a very old house which belongs to my grandfather’s family and one can see the old escutcheon in stone upon the walls, though the family are very poor now.”

“I can understand that. It is so in my own part of the country. There are many who before our civil war had wealth and have had to sell their fine old houses and who have to toil for their daily bread. How we have run off the track. I began to talk of the gipsies, and here I am forgetting all about them. Perdita, I want very much to have my fortune told, but I do not want anyone to know it. I think I could understand sufficiently well now, and if not you could explain afterward. Could you go with me to a gipsy camp? Is there one near by? Could we go without anyone’s knowing?”

Perdita thought over this for a moment. “Yes, señorita, I think I can manage it,” she said presently. “To-morrow, if you will go home with me, we shall pass a gipsy camp. It is not far. I will show you my embroideries after we have seen the gipsies. We must not be too late, for my grandmother does not like me near the camp late in the day.”

“That is a lovely plan, and you are very good to think of it. I will be ready by the time you come for me, and no one will be the wiser. Must you go now? Let me give you two or three French sentences to say over as you are walking home.”

Perdita obediently repeated the words, and Patty watched her tall, supple figure mount the hill behind the house.

But no one was told of the plan to visit Perdita until the next day when the peasant girl appeared, and then Patty put her head into the room where her sister was. “I am going home with Perdita to see her embroideries,” she announced.

“With Perdita?” said Doña Martina.

“Yes. She was here yesterday, and we had a long, interesting talk, in the course of which I improved my Spanish. In two months of steady study I have become fairly proficient, don’t you think?”

“You have certainly not wasted your time. Juan was saying yesterday that your progress was surprising. Well, I suppose there is no objection to your going with Perdita. I’d like to go myself, but I can’t this morning. How about Paulette? Have you asked her?”

“No, and she wouldn’t care to go. She isn’t interested in any embroideries but her own. Besides, I heard her say that Don Felipe would be here this morning, and had promised to bring a rare old missal to show her; she’d rather stay and see that, but I will ask her, though I know she won’t go.”

Having smoothed the way for her expedition, Patty started off with Perdita. They soon left the village behind them, and by one of the winding roads climbed the mountain. Once in a while the buzzing, droning sound of an approaching cow-cart reached them on the narrow way, but the slow-stepping cows always gave them plenty of time to move aside. “I used to wonder why they never greased their carts,” said Patty, looking after one which had just passed, “but now I know; it is because the creak serves as a warning to get out of the way.”

“It is not only that,” rejoined Perdita, “but the noise keeps the devils away.”

“I should think it would be a most efficient means of doing that,” Patty replied, laughing.

Near a little stream, leaping its course toward the valley, they came upon the gipsy camp. Their first knowledge of it was derived from the sudden appearance of three impish looking little creatures, who were dancing forward and poking out their fingers at a turkey gobbler, which they were challenging in some outlandish tongue. When he stretched out his neck and gobbled, making as if to run at them, they shrieked with glee and raced off, half in fear, half in bravado. The eldest was the ringleader, and was by far the most fascinating, Patty thought. Around her brown, naked, little body she had wound a strip of scarlet cloth; this she clutched with one hand, to prevent its dropping from her utterly. When she ran the scarlet ends trailed after her, discovering bare arms, legs, and thighs. Her black elfish locks hung around her face, and her burning dark eyes were full of mischief.

“What an enticing little creature,” said Patty, standing still. At the appearance of the two strangers the children first fled away startled, but presently she of the scarlet cloth returned and whined out a petition for a penny. “You are certainly worth it,” said Patty, in English, as she deposited a perrono in the dirty little hand. The child stared, showed her white teeth, dextrously tied the coin in a fold of her rags and ran off. The girls followed and presently a pretty woman came forward, walking with that peculiar movement of the hips practised by these gipsies and considered quite an elegant accomplishment. Dirty she was beyond words, but this did not disguise her beautiful face nor lessen the glory of her lustrous eyes.

Could she tell the señorita’s fortune? Cross her palm with silver and it should be done.

“I suppose I’d better make it worth while to have a fair fortune,” said Patty, opening her purse and handing out a two peseta piece, a larger sum than was expected, without doubt.

“Dame la mano, señorita,” said the gipsy. Patty held out her hands and the woman gazed at the rosy palm earnestly. “You have crossed the water,” she said at last, “and will cross it again more than once. A fair-haired woman is your rival, but she is a stranger to you. There are two men who desire to marry you. Like yourself, one comes from across the water. The other does not. He is small, dark and has wealth. I do not see great money for you, however, yet you will never come to want. You will not rise to great estate, but you will have happiness. You are of a merry, joyous disposition, yet it is hard to discover your true heart. You will love deeply and sacrifice much for that love. I see death which will affect someone near you.”

This talk of death scared Patty, who withdrew her hand. “That will do, thank you,” she said.

“It is a good fortune? Enough?” asked the gipsy.

“Quite enough. Now read my friend’s hand.” She produced another peseta, and before Perdita could expostulate had handed it over and Perdita was urged to extend her palm.

The gipsy looked long and intently, frequently following the lines with her dirty finger or raising her eyes to look searchingly into Perdita’s face, muttering sometimes to herself. “It is strange, very strange,” she said at last. “You are born in a peasant’s home, yet you come of good station. You are not what you seem. Yes, yes, the lover must hesitate, he cannot do otherwise; he does not know. Here is a death—oh, yes, that will change all. You will then be a lady and possess great estates. I see them everywhere; in the mountains, in the valleys and your lover—”

“Will he be true?” breathed Perdita through parted lips.

“He will be true. There is the cross of marriage for you, but death will come first. One who is near you will die—an old person.”

“My grandmother, maybe?”

“No, a man it is. I see many strange things, but a good ending. You love above your station and this love is a sorrow to you, but all ends well.”

The girls had heard enough and were ready to go, but their departure was delayed by swarming children begging for pennies, the inconsiderate display of wealth by the first little girl being too much for their cupidity. So it was with difficulty that Patty got away with a penny in her purse; indeed, she did give up all her pennies, reserving only the silver.

“What did you think of it, Perdita?” she asked, when they were fairly free from the itching palms. “Did you ever know such filth, and wasn’t the fortune-teller a beauty? Shall you tell your grandmother about what she said?”

“No, señorita; she would disapprove. Better say nothing. It is all foolishness of course.”

“Yes, of course—but—”

Perdita nodded. “I understand—but—”

They were both silent for a moment, then Patty said, “Do you think any of it could be true?”

“Some of it was true,” replied Perdita, crossing herself. “I shall have to confess it to the cura and I will do penance, yet somehow I am not sorry to have heard what she said.”

“Nor I. There was a great deal about deaths and things that I didn’t like; that seemed silly, I thought. By the time I have done with making wishes for inxanos and hearing fortunes from gipsies I shall be as superstitious as any old woman; I must stop it.”

They followed the road to the house of Perdita’s grandmother, a low white dwelling in the style of most, though better than many. It had balconies above, the patio below, the hay-loft at the side, the orrio a little beyond the house. This small grain house, peculiar to this part of Spain, stood upon four piles of stones, four or five feet high; on these were placed stone slabs to keep out the rats and mice. It was covered with a thatch of straw and added to the picturesque aspect of the little farmstead. The house was neat and clean and fairly well furnished. Old Catalina, with her black handkerchief tied over her head, was the very type of the ordinary peasant, and Patty decided that it was not from her grandmother that Perdita inherited her beauty. The old woman did not talk much, but Patty felt that she was closely scrutinized. Perdita displayed her beautiful embroidery and pressed one piece after another upon her guest, till Patty felt that she did not dare to admire, lest she be called upon to accept it all. She suddenly realized, however, that this was the Spanish form of politeness, and was as profuse in her gracious refusals as Perdita in her offers, so the matter was adjusted.

They walked back together to the edge of town, where Perdita left her visitor, promising to come the next day for a lesson in French. She had already learned perfectly the few sentences Patty had taught her and was eager for more.

Don Felipe was on hand when Patty came in and she felt that she was expected to listen to his little set speeches and flowery compliments for the rest of the evening. But that night, as she was leaning over the balcony looking at the starlight on the mountains, her sister came to her side. “What are you thinking about, Patty?” she said. “You haven’t answered, though I called you twice. Where is the letter you wanted to show me, the one from Uncle Henry?”

“I was wondering what was the color of Miss Moffatt’s hair,” was the answer.

“Miss Moffatt? Who in the world is she?”

“Oh, I forgot; you don’t know her. Never mind. Uncle Henry’s letter is on the table in my book of Spanish verbs.” She did not offer to get it, but stood leaning on the ledge, thinking, thinking long after the lights were out.

## CHAPTER XII

### TOMÁS TELLS

The gipsy was not far wrong in her estimate of the Glad Lady, “La Señorita Alegra,” as Perdita called her. She was more thoughtful than the casual observer gave her credit for being, and in spite of her gay sallies and pretended whimsies, there was, deep down in her heart, a steadfastness and loyalty which circumstance and experience would more fully develop. She had not the slightest idea of flirting with Tomás, and indeed their acquaintance was of the most sensible kind, in spite of the fact that the girl did her best to convey to her sister the impression that it was otherwise. Though Doña Martina had long held the position of mentor, she had not always exerted her authority with discretion, so that now, when Patty had left school, she rather resented the elder’s attitude and took the bit between her teeth with an intention of going her own gait. Even as a child she had rebelled against her sister’s attempts at coercion, once saying plaintively: “It isn’t that I don’t want to mind Tina, but it is the way she tries to force me that makes me disobey.” And in this case it was the way the law was enforced rather than the law itself which aroused Patty’s opposition. She would not have made Tomás unhappy for the world, and had long since discovered that she could not if she would, for she suspected that his heart beat fast at the approach of some other than herself. It was not Paulette, of that she was convinced, nor was it the handsome widowed daughter of Don Amable who brought a flush to his cheek and fire to his eye. In these last days Patty had discovered more than she was disposed to tell anyone, and the gipsy’s fortune-telling had but corroborated her suspicions. It was Perdita in whom Tomás was interested, and it was Tomás whom Perdita loved. She was so beautiful, it was not surprising, Patty reflected, that she should have attracted Tomás, and in those long months after his mother’s death, and before the arrival of his brother, he must have been lonely and it was no wonder he turned to someone and that the someone should be Perdita. The little village afforded few companions of the better class, the padre, the schoolmaster and his wife, and in summer one or two families who came up from Oviedo for a change of air, so unless he went to the larger towns near by, Tomás must seek such society as opportunity afforded.

As for Perdita, she was closely watched by her grandmother, and had no intimates among the girls of the pueblo. Living as she did some distance away, she had few chances of meeting, as the other girls did, her friends at the fuente or on the plaza. While all liked her, there was a little air of aloofness about her which prevented a too great familiarity, and she was called very proud.

Patty was not only tender-hearted, but romantic. Moreover, she appreciated less than one born under a monarchy, the differences in station, and she determined that so far as in her lay she would further the affair of Tomás and Perdita. She laughed a little to herself as she made certain plans. It would be great fun to mislead Tina by making her suppose it was entirely for her own ends that she lured Tomás off to take walks with her in order that they might meet Perdita somewhere along the way, or that she should urge him to join herself and Perdita in the little summer house where the daily lesson was had. Perhaps she realized, and perhaps she did not, that these daily meetings were golden opportunities for the pair, who had rarely seen each other of late, or at least had seldom met to have any word with one another.

It would be lovely, Patty thought, if it should turn out that she would eventually inherit something from that Americano father of hers. “I am sure no one could then object,” she told herself. “As it is, the Estradas are so proud that Juan would be shooting mad if Tomás suggested such a thing, and what a pity that the two brothers should quarrel just as they have been reunited. For my part,” her thoughts ran on, “I don’t see why Tomás hasn’t just as much right to marry out of his class as Juan did to marry out of his country.”

With these thoughts in her mind, the girl went singing down the steps the morning after her visit to the gipsies, pausing at the foot to give a gay “Buenas dias,” to Tomás standing in the doorway.

“Goodth morning, gladth ladthy,” responded Tomás. “You are look happy as a roses. You have been sleeping well, yes?”

“Very well.” Patty looked at him with a quizzical expression in her eyes and then laughed outright. It was so funny to be possessed of his secret and to have him in ignorance of her knowing.

“You are very gladth?” Tomás said inquiringly. “Something agreeable has happen-ed?”

“Yes, something agreeable is always happening, every day. Tomás, don’t you think Perdita is an uncommonly pretty girl?” She went nearer to him and looked up in his face.

He started, but immediately became composed and began slowly to roll another cigarette before he answered, “She is very pretty says everyone. It is not a new discovery, is it?”

“Oh, no, not at all, but she is really beautiful with those glorious eyes and that wonderful hair; then she has such a graceful svelt figure, so erect and splendid in a way. I never saw a girl I admired more. They say that in Andalusia one finds the most beautiful Spanish women, but surely none could exceed Perdita in looks. She is very intelligent, too, I find. Someone has been lending her books; I wonder who.”

Tomás did not reply at once. “The schoolmaster, Don Miguel, perhaps,” he said after a moment.

Patty smiled. She had her own suspicions, but it was evident Tomás was on his guard. She put another question. “Did you know she is studying French with me?”

Tomás was not to be caught. “Yes; so Martina said.”

Patty watched him run his tongue along the paper to seal his cigarette. There was a smile on her lips and laughter in her eyes as she said, “Oh, Tomás, Tomás, I am afraid that it is you Tina should bring to task for flirting. Aren’t you ashamed to play with poor Perdita’s heart?”

The hand which held the cigarette trembled so that the match went out. “Caracoles!” exclaimed Tomás under his breath.

“Snails!” cried Patty. “I always think that is such a lovely swear; it sounds so dreadful and means so little. I am wondering, however, if you intended it for me or the match.” She laughed teasingly. “I was thinking,” she went on, “that maybe you would like to join my French class. It would be useful to know French, you see, when you go to France to marry Paulette.”

“Paulette!” Tomás was taken off his guard, and felt himself in a mesh. He couldn’t be rude and run away; there was no one about and there was no excuse. “You don’t mind my cigarette?” He made the query lamely, for he knew she did not in the least mind.

“Oh, no,” was the answer. “Why should I suddenly conceive a dislike to tobacco smoke when I have been used to it all my life? You haven’t answered my question, Tomás. Should you like to join our class, Perdita’s and mine? Although I must say it seems rather tragic to ask you to study with Perdita in order that you may be proficient when you go to France to live.”

“I to live in France? Never.”

“Oh, but Tomás, Polly is a nice girl, not high-born, maybe, but her money would make you so comfortable.”

“Diablo!” cried Tomás. “I wish not be more comfortable. I am comfortable enough.”

“I shouldn’t gather so from your expression. You are so violent this morning,” Patty continued mildly. “I wonder what is the matter. You are usually so sweet-tempered, Tomás. Juan is the peppery one. Then you don’t want to study French?”

Tomás puffed at his cigarette and made no reply for a moment, then in an altered tone, he said, “Pattee, what is it you try do? Are you but torment me, or have you a reason for do this?”

“Nice sensible child,” said Patty, “you have at last arrived at a sane condition of mind. Come out into the summer-house and I will tell you.”

The little summer-house, clothed in vines, was a sure and safe retreat. No one would be liable to interrupt them here unless they were specially sought out, yet it was near enough to the house to observe any comings or goings. There was a long bench on one side, two stools on the other and a rude table in the middle, where merienda could be served. “You see,” began Patty, seating herself on one of the stools and resting her elbows on the table, “I know you can not visit Perdita openly on Juan’s account and for other reasons, and I am willing to help you two, but first I must be satisfied that you are not trifling. Perdita is too fine, too good for you to treat shabbily, to make unhappy, and I won’t have it. If you are just playing with her I shall make all the mischief I can, if by so doing I can put a stop to your philandering.” She was waxing very indignant as she considered that this might be the state of affairs. “You shall not make her unhappy,” she repeated.

Tomás gave a long sigh and gazed off with melancholy eyes at the blue mountains. “My dear Pattee, what can I do? My brother has just return to me in poor health, in nerves, in weakness. Shall I arouse the anger, destroy the health, make him unhappiness, and drive him from the home of youth by what I would do? I know too well his opinions, and so—we wait—that is all to do, to wait.”

“I understand all that,” returned Patty, “and I wish to help you, but only if you mean well, if you mean not to trifle with Perdita.”

“I mean well, the best. She is, as you say, so beautiful, so fine, so good, so worthy. I give her all the heart.” He spoke with emotion, stretching out his open palms upon the table.

“Then I will do all I can for you, Tomás, and it seems to me that as no one suspects the truth, it will be better if you two meet when I am a third, so that the surmise will be that it is I who am the attraction. I have an idea that Paulette has suspicions. She is very clever about such things, that Polly, and she may tell my sister. I am not sure that she has not already, for Tina was asking me some searching questions yesterday. I would rather she should think that you and I are having a desperate affair than that she should tell Juan and have him angry with you and Perdita. You understand?”

“Oh, yes, I undtherstandth.”

“Perdita must understand, too. I wonder—” Patty paused. She wondered if Perdita had been made to suffer in those early days when Tomás had been pressed into service every day and hour, and when there could have been no chance for the lovers to meet. She did not forget the little chapel with the figure of the girl kneeling before the shrine, the beautiful, unhappy, upturned face. Her intuitions told her that Perdita had been made unhappy because she believed that Tomás had transferred his affections to herself. She must know better now, or she would not be so friendly. “Unless,” Patty spoke out, “she is a saint, and I don’t believe she is quite that.”

“What are you to say?” asked Tomás.

“Oh, nothing. I was thinking aloud. Tomás, do you know anything of Perdita’s father?”

“No,” he shook his head.

“What do the people about here say?”

“They say he has gone to America to make a fortune for his daughter. They say he broke the heart when the mother of her is to die, and that he will not return till he have the richness to give this child of his.”

“If he should return with money, do you think that would make any difference in Juan’s feeling?”

“It is not the money; it is the family. The Estradas do not marry peasants, he has said so once very meaningly.”

“Yes, I supposed he would say that. Then, as you say, there is nothing to do but to wait. Perdita could not leave her grandmother now, anyhow, but later on, when Juan is quite well, you might go to America and take Perdita with you. Perhaps you could find out where her father is and go there. Why not? Mañana, mañana, yes, Tomás, this is a time when mañana is a wise thought. Meantime, I will keep your secret, for I like you and I am very fond of Perdita.” She held out her hand across the table. Tomás bent his head and kissed it. At the same moment Doña Martina paused in the doorway.

“So this is where you two are,” she said. “We have been wondering what had become of you. There is a feria going on near Ribadesella and you should see the people coming in with their droves of wild ponies from the mountains, and, oh, the cheeses! the odor of them fills the air. I am surprised you haven’t noticed the noise and clatter outside.”

“We have been busy talking.” Patty looked conscious as she made the excuse.

“Well, heaven knows, you have opportunities enough for talking, but you, Patty, can’t see wild ponies every day. Come up on the balcony with me. I have no doubt Tomás has seen ferias by the score.”

Patty followed meekly. Her sister looked at her sharply once or twice. After a while she put an arm around her. “Well, Patty?” she said.

“Well?”

“That was a pretty scene from the doorway of the summer-house.”

“Yes, I always did think that such a very pretty scene from that point,” returned Patty with a great show of enthusiasm.

Her sister withdrew her arm and led the way to the house without another word.

“Now she’s mad,” thought Patty. “But what could I do or say other than I did?”

There was no French lesson that afternoon, for the ladies were whirled away in Don Felipe’s coach to the feria, which, after all, was not much of a sight. A great many very dirty gipsies were much in evidence, this being the occasion for a great trading of horses, mules and donkeys; there were numerous booths for eating and drinking, strolling musicians trolled out their ditties, and dancing went on beyond the cattle pens.

Since the affair of the donkey, Patty had not shown much favor to the old don, who now turned his attentions to Paulette and received sufficient encouragement for Patty to wonder if her friend really would marry him if the opportunity afforded. Once during the afternoon, Patty caught sight of the yellow kerchief and silver ornaments of the pretty fortune-teller, but made haste to turn in another direction, desiring no recognition. She did not enjoy the afternoon very much, feeling something lacking, whether the presence of Tomás or someone else she would not question.

Paulette, on the contrary, was in high feather. She had taken pleasure in walking about with Don Felipe strutting by her side, and in seeing that they were remarked by so many. “They remind me of a little buff hen and a tiny Bantam rooster,” Patty remarked to her sister when they were following in the wake of the pair.

“You are always so severe on the poor little don,” said Doña Martina. “I am sure he can’t help being so small.”

“He can help being so deadly important. He always reminds me of that line in the Psalter, where it speaks of those with ‘a proud look and a high stomach.’ I never appreciated it quite so much as since I met Don Felipe.”

“But you enjoyed riding in his coach.”

“Oh, not so very much. I think Paulette enjoyed it more. I’d much rather have come with Tomás in the little cart and have driven my dear asnillo.”

“Oh, I suppose so. Anywhere so you are alone with Tomás.”

“Yes; aren’t you glad we should have become such good friends?” returned Patty heartily. At this juncture, Don Felipe paused before a booth, where he ordered refreshments, and Doña Martina had no opportunity of answering.

A couple of saucy Gallegos paused before the party to improvise ditties in praise of the strangers, a proceeding which always amused bystanders and one to which the Inglesas had become accustomed, so they were in nowise abashed in being relegated to high places or in being complimented as highly as flowery phrases would admit. They knew they would be expected to pay for the flattery and meantime it was rather amusing to discover how ingenious the singers could be.

When they reached home Tomás was absent, but he came in later and a significant glance passed between him and Patty, which was followed up later by the whispered question, “Have you seen her?”

“Yes,” came the answer.

“She understands?”

“Yes, and will come to-morrow.”

“It seems to me that you and Tomás have a great many secrets,” said Paulette that evening, when she and Patty were preparing for bed.

“Yes, it is nice, isn’t it, to have confidences with one’s sister’s new brother. I quite enjoy it, never having had a brother of my own. And have you no secrets, Polly?”

Paulette considered before she answered, “Not yet.”

Patty came over and sat on the arm of Paulette’s chair. “Would you really marry Don Felipe, if he asked you?” she inquired.

“Why not? He is a great match. My guardian would be greatly pleased.”

“Oh, dear, but do you love him?”

“Why should I? He is rich and no doubt would make an excellent husband. What more could I ask?”

“I suppose,” said Patty running her fingers through Paulette’s bright hair, “that it is enough for you, but it wouldn’t be for me. I should die, die, die.” She emphasized the words with a tap of her finger on Paulette’s head.

“I would not do that. I would live and very happily in that great palacio.”

“Which you pretended I was welcome to when I suggested Tomás and love in a cottage.”

“Ah, yes, but—Tomás—”

“What of him?”

“Has his mind set elsewhere. He has become distrait, that young man, and when he has not whispers for you he has eyes for someone else.”

Patty was silent for a moment, then with a sort of bravado she said: “Oh well, you will see. It is only a question of time. Meanwhile dream of your palacio and I will dream, too.”

“Of what?”

Patty would not tell, but before she went to sleep her thoughts wandered back to a box-hedged garden, the one of which she and Robert Lisle had talked. Where was he? Not a word of him since he bade them farewell and departed for Santander. “That chapter is closed,” sighed Patty, as she turned on her pillow. “I have presented a palace to Polly, a heart to Perdita, and there is nothing left for me.”

## CHAPTER XIII

### THE LONG WHITE ROAD

Doña Martina and Paulette were going to Llanes with Don Juan to do some shopping, but Patty declined to accompany them, having spent all her money on blind beggars she said. The truth was she had become a little tired of Paulette. It was all very well when she was one of a number at the convent, but, as she told her sister, “a daily diet of Paulette palls on me. I didn’t mean that for a pun, Tina. It isn’t that I don’t like her, for I do, but I weary of her little screams and affectations, her material way of looking at things. She isn’t exactly heartless, but she is calculating like her shop-keeping ancestors, and she has small frugalities which drive me mad. Moreover I am not quite sure how sincere she is. I can’t talk to her with half the freedom I do to Perdita, who is so open-hearted and natural.”

“Then you are sorry you brought Paulette with you? I was wondering at the time if it might not prove a mistake, but you were so sure you wanted her and I knew there would be but few young companions here for you.”

“I’m not sorry she came, at the same time I shall not be sorry to see her go. Paulette for breakfast, dinner and supper during three solid months wears on one. If Cary Logan hadn’t gone home I’d much rather have had her, but Paulette was the only one available and so—. Please take her off my hands for a day, Tina, and I will freshen up my jaded sensibilities while you are gone.”

So it was that Paulette and Doña Martina went off together while Patty was left to the comfort of a quiet day alone. She spent her first hour very idly. It was such a satisfaction to be lazy, not to hear Paulette’s little heels clicking along the floor, and to know her solitude would not be broken in upon by “Ma foi, Patty, what are you doing? Shall we walk? Shall we ride to-day? Shall we study the Spanish? Are you not going to do somesing?” “And now I am going to do exactly as I please, just as the spirit moves me,” she told herself as she leaned on the railing of the galleria, and looked up and down the long white road: “When I get tired of staying here I’ll do the next thing that occurs to me.” Yet being naturally an energetic person, she could but plan what she would do. That morning she would loaf. In the afternoon she would take Guido and have a drive. Perhaps she would drive home with Perdita after the French lesson, and would come around by an old house she knew where she had seen an ancient knocker on the gate. She would like to have the knocker because Don Felipe wanted it. They said he always got what he wanted, but this time she would have the thing he desired, because Pepe, who lived in the old house, had promised it to her if to anyone. She knew of another thing which Don Felipe had not secured, but about this she kept her own counsel. Along the long white road a constant procession passed, wagons of the viajantes, droves of cattle for the market, a woman with a macona balanced upon her head, others with tubs coming from the washing place, a child with a bucket so heavy as to make it hard for her to walk steadily, burros with loaded panniers, gipsies, gallegos, blind musicians, peddlers. Patty watched them all, her thoughts following them on, or taking a leap to the rough country road down which she had so often galloped on her little pony. She had traveled so far, and was so absorbed in her thoughts that she was startled when a voice below her spoke softly, “Señorita,” and looking down she saw Perdita smiling up at her.

“I have brought you some brevas,” said the girl.

“Brevas! How fine. You know how I like them. I’ll come down,” and she descended the stairs to receive this gift of early figs. “It was good of you to bring them, Perdita.”

“Oh, but señorita, how good you are. Tomás has told me.”

“That is nothing. We must have a long talk, Perdita. Can you not stay with me to-day? I am all alone, for they have everyone gone to Llanes, even Tomás, and I believe I should have been a little lonely after a while.”

“I can stay if you wish it, yes, señorita.”

“Then come in. Bring the brevas upstairs and we will eat them there. It is fortunate you came this morning, for now there will be no one to interrupt our talk. This afternoon we can have the French early and then go for a ride.” She set the basket of figs on the table in her own room and settled Perdita in one chair while she took one opposite. “Now,” she said in a satisfied tone, “we shall enjoy ourselves. So Tomás told you that I had made a discovery. I only guessed it, Perdita.”

“Yes, señorita.” Perdita cast down her eyes.

Patty sat peeling the green skin from a breva while she watched the girl’s face. “Do you know, Perdita,” she began, “that at first I thought he might be flirting—how shall I say that in Spanish?—that he was making a coqueteria with you—and I was angry.”

“You are so good, señorita.”

“Oh, but I am not, for there was a time when I tried to make sister think I was flirting with Tomás myself. She thinks now that we are in earnest. Perdita were you jealous?” She leaned over and took the girl’s toil-worn fingers in hers. “Were you zeloso?”

“Of you, señorita?”

“Yes, of me.”

“I am afraid I was, señorita. There were many days after you came that I did not see Tomás at all, and I was very unhappy.”

“Of course you were, poor dear, but he couldn’t help himself; we all kept him so busy, and I must admit that I was the one who demanded the most from him. You see, Perdita, I didn’t know then about you, and I liked Tomás very much, not in the way you do, but as a friend, and I like him still, and shall do all I can for him and you.”

“Gracias, señorita, you are so very good, but—.” The lovely face took on an expression of sadness.

“What is it?”

“I know at last we must part. I try not to think of that mañana, for when Tomás is near me he assures me it will not be so, and I think only of the happiness I have. But it would be very wrong to marry below one’s station as he would do. I asked the padre if one would do right to marry beneath him, and he said no, though sometimes if there was no one to offend it might not be out of place. You see there is someone to offend. Don Juan it is, and how could I do him a wrong who has been so good to us, who has restored to my grandmother her sight? No, señorita, it cannot be, unless Don Juan were to say so. When you came I knew it would be a proper thing if he married the sister of his brother’s wife, so that there would be one happy family. I told him this and said I could never marry him; that was after I had asked the padre.”

“And poor Tomás believed you, I verily think, for I am certain that he tried for a time to do as you had suggested, that is to grow very fond of me.”

“Yes, he tried,” replied Perdita, with perfect honesty, “but he came back to me one day and said he, too, was very unhappy, and that the sight of me had put to flight all other thoughts. What could I do? What could I do then? I was so miserable, I could have died with misery before that, and when he said he could not love any other, ah, señorita, it was such happiness.”

“I think I remember the time,” said Patty slowly. “Well then, Perdita?”

“Then he said he would wait; it was all we could do. I have prayed Our Lady to have pity on us and perhaps she will, though if it is wrong, as the padre says, of course she would not. She could not allow us to do wrong, you see.”

“I cannot see why it would be wrong,” Patty declared. “You tell me you come of good family.”

“My mother did, yes, but of my father what do I know?”

“True, yet I am convinced it will all be well some day. You are young, both of you, and can wait. How old are you, Perdita?”

“I am twenty, señorita.”

“Just my age, and goodness knows I haven’t the slightest idea of marrying anyone. Even supposing you two could marry now, I am sure you would appear well. Dressed like a lady you would seem far more like one than many I could mention.”

“I resemble my mother they say, señorita. I do not look at all like my father, and I am told my grandmother was very proud of my mother’s appearance.”

“Perdita!” Patty suddenly had an inspiration. “Wouldn’t you like to see how you would look dressed like a lady?”

“Oh, señorita!”

“It would be great fun.” Patty sprang to her feet and opened the door of a clothes-press. “You are only a little taller than I, though I am more slender. Let me see.” She took down one garment after another and flung them on the bed. “There,” she said. “I think those will suit you. But first I must do your hair.”

“Oh, but señorita, I cannot allow you to serve me.”

“I’m not serving; I am only amusing myself.” She let down the wavy, rich, brown hair which fell in thick masses over the girl’s shoulders. Deftly she piled it up, giving it a tuck-in here, a pat there, then she stood off to view the effect. “That is fine,” she pronounced. “Now, on with these. I’ll hook you into them.” She slipped a soft trailing silk over Perdita’s head, pulled it snugly together, touched it off with a necklace and a pair of long gloves, which latter were a little too large for herself, then after another dive into a box brought forth a wide-brimmed Paris hat which she set upon the girl’s head. “Now you’ll do,” she announced. “You look perfectly stunning. Come into the other room and see. There is a long mirror there.” She ran ahead, Perdita following as best she could with the long skirt to which she was unaccustomed.

“There,” cried Patty, as they stopped before the mirror, “look at yourself and say that you are not as fine a lady as the best.”

Perdita half ashamed, half pleased, could but realize that the vision reflected in the glass was a charming one. The hat with graceful drooping plumes was becoming as the gown and the whole effect was beyond what she had ever dared to hope she could present.

Their fun was suddenly broken in upon by Anita’s voice announcing, “The señor Don Felipe, señorita.” A hot flush mounted to Perdita’s cheek. There was no way of escape, for Don Felipe was already upon the threshold. To Patty, however, the occasion presented only a further incident in the little comedy. With dancing eyes she led the shrinking Perdita forward. “Buenas dias, señor,” she said, “allow me to present you to my friend the señorita Gonzalez.”

Don Felipe made one step forward, “Dios mio!” he exclaimed as he took in the charming figure from head to foot, then, bowing low, he said, “at your feet, ladies.” But he did not tarry long, to Patty’s relief. He had but stopped to leave a book for Don Juan, he explained. He must go on. Yet all the time he remained, Patty caught him casting stealthy glances at Perdita who, with eyes downcast, sat without saying a word.

When the sound of horses’ hoofs was heard on the stones below, Patty looked Perdita up and down smiling the while. “I believe you have made a conquest, cara mia,” she said. “My faith, how fast he is galloping off. I should think he would go slowly and would look back often. How should you like to live in a palacio, Perdita, and eat from silver dishes?”

“Oh, señorita!” Perdita looked troubled.

“It would be fine if he were to select you after all. He would dress you up so grandly, and I should see you driving around in that great coach.”

“Oh, but señorita, Tomás—”

“‘AT YOUR FEET, LADIES.’”

“To be sure, I am forgetting Tomás. Well he is an old man, is Don Felipe, and perhaps he would not live long and then you would be a rich widow who could marry whom you pleased.”

Perdita looked shocked. Her simple mind could not grasp the wild imaginings of the fly-away Patty. “Ave Maria,” she said, crossing herself, “so proud a man as Don Felipe would never think of a peasant like me. There is none so proud as Don Felipe, and they say it is because of his pride that he has never married, that nothing but a marquesa or a condessa at least would satisfy him.”

“Oh, when men become as old as he, youth and beauty are far greater attractions than position and wealth or family,” said Patty sagely. “That might all have been true when he was young. He can buy all the antiques he wants, but it isn’t every day so lovely a creature comes his way.”

“You mock me, señorita,” said Perdita, a little offended.

“Indeed I do not, my dear; it is quite true. I could see how much he was struck by your appearance. Why, he scarcely took his eyes off you, and had none for me. Have you ever spoken to him before?”

“No, señorita. Everyone knows Don Felipe, of course. So great a man as he is always pointed out, but ah, it is fine feathers make fine birds, and I am sure he did not recognize me in the peasant girl he has passed many times on the road and to whom he has never given a glance. It is known that he is so proud he will scarce turn his head when he is riding along.”

“Well he certainly should know you again, if looking can familiarize one with a face, and unless I am mistaken, he will be asking me questions about my beautiful friend, the señorita Gonzalez. No, don’t take off the gown; I want you to wear it to almuerzo with me. I will dress up, too, and we will pretend that you are the señora Doña Perdita Velasco de Gonzalez, while I am—let me see—nothing short of a condessa could breakfast with anyone so magnificent as you will be.”

By this time Perdita had begun to see through Patty’s make-believes, and entered into the spirit of the thing, and it must be confessed, sometimes aping Patty’s airs and graces. At breakfast, however, she was ill at ease, though taking to heart the object lessons Patty’s table manners offered. One must not eat with a knife, she discovered, nor wipe her mouth upon the back of her hand, and one must eat mincingly, taking small pieces of bread instead of biting off large mouthfuls. There was much to learn, Perdita perceived humbly, but she was grateful for the opportunity of learning, whether the lesson was intended or not.

“I wish Tomás could see you,” Patty remarked, as Perdita at last declared she must again assume her own dress. “No, I don’t either, for he would be crazier than ever and would spoil all your chances of becoming Don Felipe’s bride.”

“You always make the joke, señorita, yet I know now it is but a joke which you mean, for you have promised to be the friend of Tomás and me.”

“But I would be your friend just the same, for who knows how long you may have to wait? You might have to wait less time to be a widow.”

“Señorita!”

“Never mind, Perdita. I suppose I do shock you. It is true I am only joking. I will not play that way any more, for I really do not mean it. My imagination flies away with me sometimes. I mean to be perfectly loyal to you and Tomás in spite of Don Felipe or anyone else, so don’t mind my nonsense. If you feel uncomfortable we will take off these fine feathers, as you call them, I have no doubt you would rather wear what you are accustomed to. Then we will have the French lesson.”

The French lesson over, Perdita departed leaving Patty in the little summer-house. Now and then an iris-necked pigeon would patter in, look around inquiringly and patter out again, or a bird would twitter in the branches over the door. “I am having a lovely, peaceful time,” sighed Patty. “When Polly goes I suppose there will be plenty of such hours, and I shall get deadly lonely. There will always be Perdita though, when Tina hasn’t time to spare me. Perdita has much charm, and I do not think it would be hard to fit her to be my sister’s sister-in-law. Ah, here comes Tomás, the first to arrive. I shall have much to tell him.”

An hour later when the rest of the party returned, Patty and Tomás were still sitting in the summer-house, and there Doña Martina found them, but she did not frown, she only said, “Have you had a good day, Patty?”

“A lovely day,” was the answer. “Don Felipe was here and you know that made sunshine for all the hours.”

“Absurd child,” said her sister, giving her a soft tap and looking at Tomás as if to say, we understand.

That night as Patty was ready for sleep her sister came in; Paulette in the next room was already bound in slumbers, being tired out with the day’s shopping. “Patty,” said her sister, sitting down on the bed by her side, “we have had a long talk, Juan and I, about you and Tomás, and dear, we do not want you to think we are so unsympathetic as will make you withhold your confidence. We will do all we can. Of course ever since that day in the summer-house when I saw him kiss you—”

“Only my hand, Tina; that was nothing.” Patty lifted herself from the pillows in protest.

“Oh well, never mind, it was enough to show what you both felt, and Juan says we can give up this house to you if you would rather live here, though he thinks Tomás should do more, that he should not settle down to this hum-drum existence, this village life. He is going to see about sending him to South America or Mexico where he will have opportunities. If he succeeds, why, then—But, oh my dear—” she leaned over and took Patty in her arms, “it will be hard to give you up, to send you off there, and I am selfish enough to wish for us all to stay right here and live together. Yet if it will be for your happiness, I shall be satisfied either way.”

Then Patty burst into tears and wept on her sister’s shoulder.

“I’m a horrid girl,” she wailed. “You don’t know how horrid. Please don’t talk about anything now. I want only you.” And she clung to her sister till the tears ceased, and with gentle good-nights they parted.

## CHAPTER XIV

### THE SILVER MERCHANT

Don Juan, like his neighbor Don Felipe, was fond of collecting antiques, a fact which had become known to the silver merchants who, traveling through the country, collected old jewelry and silver for which they gave the peasants in exchange less valuable but more modern ornaments. In most cases the silver was melted up to be turned into articles more in the mode, but many a pair of long earrings, many a silver chain or reliquary found its way into Don Juan’s possession. For these things there was always a sharp bargaining which the ladies of the house enjoyed hugely, and they never failed to appear in Don Juan’s study when the Gallegos, as the men usually were, were shown up.

The day after the expedition to Llanes one of these silver merchants arrived. At sight of the three ladies he began to display the contents of his pack, the gewgaws for which he found a ready sale among the peasants. “None of those,” said Don Juan with a contemptuous wave of his hand. “The old pieces. Have you anything good at all?”

The man with alacrity produced a medal which was passed around, Don Juan making such depreciating remarks as, “Worth nothing at all. Badly worn. You see there is a piece chipped out.” At last he handed it back.

“But señor, it is very old,” the man spread out his hands.

“I doubt it.”

“Oh, but señor, that it is worn but shows the age. It is surely worth something.”

“A peseta, no more. You see for yourself the nick in it.”

“Very well, if you buy something else I will let you have it.”

“Lay it aside then; we will see.”

A pair of earrings were next produced; they were of a fine filigree pattern which is now rare.

“Beautiful,” whispered Patty.

Her sister threw her a warning glance.

Don Juan turned the earrings over with a contemptuous “Humph!” He had heard the whisper. “I don’t suppose anyone cares for these, but perhaps the ladies would like to look at them as a matter of curiosity,” and he handed them over to Patty to examine while the Gallego rummaged his odds and ends for an old cross which he presently brought out. Meanwhile Patty had set her heart on the earrings to give to Perdita, remembering that she had expressed a wish for such a pair to wear with her Asturian dress, so she scribbled on a piece of paper, “If these are not too much I would like to buy them.” This she handed back with the ornaments.

Don Juan nodded understandingly and began to examine the earrings with an indifferent expression. “They have been mended,” he remarked after a moment. “They are not in good condition and could not be worn as they are.”

“Oh, but señor,” came the protest, “they are much more beautiful than a pair I sold to Don Felipe the last time I came through, and for which he paid me more than I am asking for these.”

“That may be, but probably the others were in better condition. However, I will give you,” he named a sum which the man finally accepted after some parley, and Patty became the possessor of the prize. The bartering went on for an hour or more and when the Gallego at last packed up his load Don Juan had added several valuable articles to his collection. They had cost the silver merchant next to nothing and he had made a profit in the transaction.

When the man went below, at Doña Martina’s request Patty ordered the maids to give him a glass of wine before he left. Don Juan drew a long sigh as the merchant disappeared. He enjoyed these bouts but they kept him so keyed up that he was tired after they were over.

“It is as good as a play,” said Patty when she returned to the room. “I could never in the world be so keen as Juan is. Won’t Perdita look fine in these at the next fiesta? She has long wanted such a pair.”

“Perdita? Did you get them for her?” asked Doña Martina.

“Yes, she is continually bringing me flowers and fruit, and I want to give her something in return.”

“You give her French lessons.”

“And she gives me Spanish. We are quits there. I do like Perdita. She was with me for a long time yesterday.”

“So Manuela told me. I don’t know that it was wise, Patty, for you to invite her to sit at table like an equal.”

“She is an equal. I wish I were half as good and beautiful. I dressed her up in some of my clothes and I wish you could have seen what a dream of beauty she was.”

“What a child you are, Patty. I wonder what the maids thought. I am afraid it will put notions into their heads. They will be expecting the same treatment next.”

“Oh, but imagine comparing Manuela to Perdita. One is a dray horse, the other a racer.”

Doña Martina smiled. “There spoke your Kentucky influences. Of course we all know Perdita is a very superior girl and a very pretty one, but you must not treat her so that she will become discontented with her station. She is a peasant, a worker in the fields, and must always be so. This is not democratic America, Patty.”

“Oh, but Perdita does come of good family some generations back; she has told me so. Have you ever noticed what pretty hands and feet she has? Her hands are hard and rough, but so well-shaped and not much larger than mine. Oh, no, Perdita is not made of common clay. To tell you the truth,” she looked after Paulette who was leaving the room. “I’ve no doubt but she comes of much better stock than Polly, yet because Polly has money and dresses well, we accept her.”

“That may all be true, but the fact remains that you must not unsettle Perdita and make her unhappy. There is no way to alter her lot and why try to breed discontent?”

“Maybe that is the proper way to look at it, but suppose Perdita did have money, suppose in some way she inherited it, must she always be kept a peasant?”

“Perhaps not. She might marry someone of these Americanos, and return to America with him where she would probably rise to a different walk of life. There have even been nobles who have married peasants, but as our old mammy used to say, ‘dey has money but dey hasn’t anything else,’ and everyone knows it. So, pray be careful, Patty. I haven’t the least objection to Perdita’s coming here every day, but don’t dress her up and ask her to breakfast with you. I see no harm in the earrings, for they are a part of the dress she wears to fiestas and are perfectly proper.”

Patty bore the earrings away and laid them on a table in her room. She would give them to Perdita when she next came. She was not a very happy Patty this day. Her sister’s sweetness of the night before had quite disarmed her and she had avoided Tomás all morning. What seemed at first an innocent deception was assuming the proportions of an intrigue. In the romantic consideration of the love affair she had lost sight of her sister’s interest in herself and of what was due to a guardian care. “Dear me,” she sighed, “it was much easier getting along at the convent. There were no complications there. We did as we were told and that was the end of it. I suppose I had no business meddling and I am now receiving the fate of all busybodies. Yet, how was I to know? and—oh dear, I am half inclined to run away from it all and go back to the sisters. There are never any love affairs there to tie one up into hard knots, but here I have put myself in a hole, and as the Spaniards say, no hay remedia.”

She left the garden where she had been walking and went up in to the great room which was at once sala and living-room. Here the family gathered for all sorts of tasks. If one wished to sew or read, the light was good by the far windows from which one could watch the cloud shadows creep over the mountains, and could see the red-tiled roofs of little white houses in the valley. If one wanted to look out on the carretera the front windows were best for they afforded not only a view of the road, but of the village. The south side overlooked the garden and the north was turned toward the chapel. At the north window Patty saw Tomás standing, a huge apron covering him from head to heels and on a large table before him several wooden figures of saints. Just now Tomás was engaged in painting a blue robe on a Madonna. He had already given her yellow hair and a red mantle so that she was a most brilliant figure. The young man stood off to observe the effect of his work as Patty came forward. “What are you doing, Tomás?” asked she.

“Giving these saints some new clothing. You see how faded and battered they are.” He pointed with his brush to the dingy group collected on one end of the table.

“But where did they come from? Not from our little chapel? I should hate to see the dingy little saints in there done up in this florid style.”

“Oh, no, Juan would never permit that. These came from the mountains. You remember I told you I had promised Father Ignacio to make them fresh and bright, and now he is anxious that they should be ready for the fiesta which occurs very soon. He sent them down yesterday.”

“That is Perdita’s cura, is it not?”

“Yes.”

“And who are these?” Patty went over and touched one of the queer figures.

“That is San Pablo, the next is San Pedro and the third San Jose.”

“If you make them all as gloriously brilliant as this Madonna they certainly will brighten up the fiesta.”

“The peasants like them that way. They will be delighted and will think me a great artist, but for myself I prefer the old dim colors.”

“And I.” She stood watching the process of restoring the Madonna’s faded raiment until Doña Martina came in with a letter in her hand. “Maybe you would like to see this, Patty,” she said. “It is from Robert Lisle. I was wondering why we hadn’t heard from him. It is only a polite little note, but explains his failure to write.”

Patty took the letter mechanically. It was, as her sister had said, only a polite little note saying that he had been to an isolated mining district from which he had found it difficult to send anything by post. He had returned to Santander and hoped to see them all again before he left the country. Patty refolded the letter and handed it back without comment. “I wonder,” she said to herself, “if he found a chance to send a letter to Miss Moffatt. I haven’t a doubt but that was a different matter.” She went over to the front window which looked down on the patio. Her sister seated herself by her work table and took up some sewing. “There were some letters for Paulette, too,” she remarked.

“And none for me?” inquired Patty.

“None. Juan’s budget was the largest.”

“Where is Polly?”

“I fancy she is attending to her correspondence. She seemed quite excited over it.”

Patty looked out upon the carretera. The pigeons had taken shelter under the eaves; the stones of the patio were quite wet. “It is raining,” she remarked. “I see the people going along on their madreños. What funny things they are. Would one say they had two heels when one is under the ball of the foot? Wooden shoes with high heels wouldn’t describe them exactly. They make a noise like sabots, but they are better for rainy weather for they keep the feet more out of the wet. Heigho! It is rather dismal when it rains, isn’t it?”

“I quite enjoy a rainy day once in a while,” responded Doña Martina. “It gives one such a good chance to do up odds and ends. Where are you going?” for Patty crossed the room and opened a door at the other end.

“I am going to the chapel to compare our saints with those Tomás is renovating. I want to see if I can discover their identity by a similarity of expression.”

She passed out and along the narrow covered way which led to the chapel, then down a flight of steps into the silent, chill little place. It was rarely used now except in the event of a funeral, or when one of the maids stole in to drop on her knees before the pallid Virgin who stood in her tarnished shrine, faintly smiling into the empty somber spaces before her. Patty stood for a moment, then walked slowly around looking at the figures each side the altar. That must be San Roque; he could be recognized by the little dog with him; and that was St. Anthony next. On the other side she identified St. Joseph and St. John. Then she went back into the chapel and sat down. How many dead and gone Estradas had worshiped here, and how curious it seemed that foreigners should now make their home under the roof of those who once held sway. She remembered the blackened portraits in the house, men with pointed beards and ruffs, women with huge petticoats and strange coiffures. And to think that Spain was in its glory when America was yet a wilderness, when the Kentucky forests were full of savages. Now,—oh the smiling garden, the little mother in the white shawl, the bees among the blossoms! There was a sound in the house of a door closing. On the roof the rain pattered. Afar off a bell was ringing. The sounds saddened her. She sank on her knees, resting her head on her clasped hands. For a long time she knelt there, not praying, but filled with an uncertain longing for which there seemed no cure. Something had made her unhappy. It was not altogether the affair of Tomás and Perdita. What was it? “I suppose I am homesick and want my mother,” she said, with a sad little smile as she arose. “I am afraid Perdita will not come to-day,” she told herself as she passed along the corridor and back into the room where Tomás was still painting. The Virgin, now gorgeously arrayed, her blue robe bedecked with golden stars, was set aside and St. Paul was undergoing a cleansing process.

Patty paused for a moment. “I found St. Anthony, San Roque, San Jose, and San Juan,” she said, “but I must say that San Jose must have had a very changeable countenance; he doesn’t look a bit like this one.”

“Patty,” her sister called, “I’ve something for you. Our shopping from Llanes has just arrived. See how you like this,” and she flung a lace mantilla over the girl’s head.

“Just what I wanted,” declared Patty. “You are a dear thing to get it for me. Thank you so much. I did want a real Spanish one, and this is a beauty. I must go show it to Polly.”

Paulette had just finished her letters and was trying on a new shawl she had bought. “Show me how to wear it,” she said as Patty came in; “the way we did at the fiesta.”

Patty draped it around the little figure. “I, too, have something Spanish,” she said, displaying her mantilla.

“Ah, I have seen that before,” Paulette told her. “I have some news for you, somesing which will surprise you.”

“Wait till I have laid this away,” said Patty, darting from the room. She ran into her own chamber, laid the mantilla on the table and returned. “I have such a habit of leaving my things in here,” she explained, “that I wanted to be sure this time I would not be disturbing your orderliness by my forgetfulness. Did you have good letters, Polly? Was there anything from the sisters?”

“No, but from my guardian a most important letter. What will you say, Patty, when I tell you he wishes to make for me an excellent marriage to the son of a friend of his?”

“Oh! But what about Don Felipe?” Patty asked after a moment’s silence.

“I have come to the conclusion that he is not to be depended upon. You will recall that he has not been here for days.”

“He was here yesterday.”

“You say it was but to make a short call, to bring somesing to Don Juan.”

“He might have stayed longer if you had been here.”

Paulette gave a little shrug of her shoulders. “Might have stayed. I want no might haves. Why waste one’s time on an uncertain old man, a foreigner at that, when here is a young man ready?”

“But have you seen him? Can you tell whether you would like him?”

“My uncle describes him. I do not think I shall be disappointed. But, my dear, you see the importance of my appearing soon, so I must leave you to go to Poitiers at once.”

“I like Poitiers,” said Patty reminiscently. “The people there look good and honest, so I hope your parti will be as desirable as he ought. We shall be sorry to part from you. When must you go?”

“This week. My uncle meets me at Bordeaux, from thence we go to Poitiers where he lives.”

This affair of Paulette’s was such a new matter of interest, that the two sat together discussing it till Perdita was announced.

“Take her to my room, Anita,” Patty ordered. “I will be there directly. It is too wet to sit out in the summer-house, tell Perdita.”

Anita obeyed and Patty found Perdita standing by the window when she went in. Paulette’s affairs were more absorbing than the French lesson that day, and it must be confessed it was cut short. The earrings, too, were forgotten and when Patty did remember them they were not to be found. She called the maid, “Anita, did you see anything of a pair of earrings when you made up my room?” she asked.

“No, señorita.”

“I laid them just here,” she indicated a corner of the table. “We must find them.” A search was made, but no earrings were discovered, to Anita’s distress.

“Who else has been in the room?” inquired Patty.

“Only Perdita, señorita.”

“Perdita? Oh, yes, I remember. Very well, we shall see. Perhaps I am mistaken, Anita, and have put them somewhere else, after all.” But all searching was of no avail and Patty was sorely troubled. To suspect Perdita was impossible; to suspect Anita was almost as bad. But in the flurry of Paulette’s departure the incident was forgotten and it was days before the question came up again.

## CHAPTER XV

### THE LONELY HILL

With Paulette gone, Don Felipe only a casual caller, and Tomás engrossed in his own love affair, Patty felt lonelier than she had believed she could. Doña Martina was often busy and just now a little anxious about her husband who had rather overstepped the mark in working too constantly on the book he was preparing for print, therefore Patty was left a great deal to herself. For the past two or three days she had seen nothing of Perdita. Tomás was absent, as well, having gone to Oviedo on a business trip for his brother, and the girl resorted to long rides in the little donkey-cart as her best means of amusement.

One afternoon she started forth, her mind set upon a certain point from which there was a fine view of sea and mountains. That morning had brought a letter from Paulette, a complacent sort of epistle which had somehow irritated Patty. Mlle. Delambre had met Mons. Adolph Busson. They were mutually pleased. The betrothal had taken place and the marriage would be a little later. She hoped her dear friend, Patty, would be present at the wedding, unless superior attractions detained her in Spain. She wished so good an arrangement as hers might be made for her friend, yet it was only in France that these matters could be properly managed. She hoped American methods would not lead to her Patty’s remaining an old maid; that would be so unfortunate. How was the sly Tomás? and what of that other one, the Englishman, who had seemed so attentive for the moment? As for the old don, he was far too antiquated even for Patty.

“I’d like to know what the ‘even for Patty’ means,” meditated the girl, her thoughts on the letter as she took her place in the little cart. She remembered the day when Paulette had announced this possible arrangement of affairs and the train of thought carried her to the earrings which she had not remembered. Where had they gone? She could accuse Perdita, but perhaps she had seen them that day and could tell her, if they were really where Patty believed she had put them. Perhaps, after all, it would be better to hunt up Perdita and see if anything were wrong with her since she had not been to the house for several days. She might be ill, or her grandmother.

Guido’s head was therefore turned in the direction of the little farm, and before the low white house Patty halted. There was no sign of life except from the chickens picking around, and to the girl’s knock there was no reply. There was then nothing to do but to turn the cart around again and go in the direction she had first decided upon. This led toward the sea, though not along the road she generally used, but rather one further from the village with the mountains on the left. It was a tortuous way and a rough one. So steep at last did it become that Patty decided to leave the cart and try the rest of the ascent on foot. “If it were not for the cart, Guido,” she said, “I would let you go, too, for you can climb these hills and pick your way better than I. You are a good little burro, Guido, and I have not been disappointed in you. After all, you are much less disappointing than some human beings who profess a great deal and then—I wonder if he thought that by the gift of you he was simply making a graceful return for hospitality—not that you can be called graceful, Guido; far from it—At all events I’d like to know if it were that, or if he did it merely because he felt sorry for you, or whether it were another reason. Oh, me, there is no use wondering. This is a very lonely hill and I don’t know why I came to it, except that I am rather hugging my loneliness these days. I suppose Juan and Tina would be horrified to know I came here by myself, and I must confess, it was rather a venturesome thing to do. Guido, I will tie you so you can get at the grass and things, for now that I have come this far I may as well go on.”

She left the little gray beast safely tethered and started off up the steep path. It was seldom used and at times almost lost itself in thickets of brakes and briars. There was a low stone wall to climb then at last the height was reached, and Patty, panting a little, looked around her. A blue crescent of sea lay in front of her; behind her the circle of the horizon was completed by the mountains. “What a view!” the girl exclaimed. “It was worth the climb.” Her eye roved over distant objects, clusters of houses forming small pueblos, half a dozen groups or more, nearer houses isolated from the rest, and nearer still the masses of grass and brambles with here and there a blossom dotting the green.

Suddenly her eye lighted on a figure lying face down in the high grass, a girl in peasant dress. Was she asleep? and what was she doing here so far from house or road? Perhaps she was ill or hurt. Moving nearer Patty stopped as she noticed a slight movement of the figure. The crackling of the bushes as Patty made her way through caused the girl to raise her head, showing a face tear-stained and wet-eyed.

“Perdita!” cried Patty. “It is you? What is the matter?”

“Oh, señorita,” Perdita sat up, “I have a sad heart.”

“And why?” Patty made a place by Perdita’s side. “Tell me all about it. You are not grieving because Tomás has gone away, are you? He will be back in a few days. Did you think he was going to stay?”

“Oh, no, señorita, it is not that. It is I who am going away to stay.”

“You? Why, where are you going?”

“Into a convent, señorita.”

“Not to stay?” Patty was aghast. It seemed a tragedy to her to shut up this young creature behind convent walls. “You are not going to become a nun?”

“No, señorita, but I am to be gone two years and it seems forever.”

“Oh, but it will soon pass. I was two years in a convent and as I look back it does not seem long. But, Perdita, why are you going? Is it your grandmother who sends you?”

“It was my grandmother who told me I was to go. I am to go to get an education, to become more of a lady.”

“Oh, now that is not to be wept over. Why, the other day you were longing for such advantages.”

Perdita made no answer except to draw a long sigh.

“Is it because of Tomás? Does your grandmother know?” Patty still plied her with questions.

“No, I do not think it is that. If my grandmother knows she has not said so. She said, ‘some one wishes you to go to a convent for two years; at the end of that time we shall see what we shall see.’”

“Oh, Perdita, it must be just as we hoped, and your father is coming back after having made a fortune. Are you not glad? Shall you not be happy to see him?”

“Maybe, though you know, señorita, he is but a stranger to me, and what if he should want to separate me from Tomás, or what if while I am away, some other should take his fancy and I should return to find no Tomás for me? It would break my heart, señorita. I should die.”

“That is showing very little faith in Tomás. I do not believe he is the inconstant sort for there was Paulette and here was—” she stopped short.

“Yourself. Yes. I know, and if he did not love anyone so dear and lovely as you I should have more faith, but I cannot help my fears. Can anyone who loves as I do? If you had a lover, señorita, would you not fear to leave him for two years, to know that in all that time you could not write to him nor hear from him?”

“But can you not see him?”

“No, my grandmother says I am not to leave the convent. She cannot even come to see me herself, and that is a great sacrifice for her to make, she says.”

“But what will she do without you?”

“Someone is to come to take charge of the farm and to look after my grandmother. I do not like that, either, señorita. I do not like to think of others attending to my animals, to count my sheep, my chickens. I do not want to go away from my own pueblo. I want to be as free as I am to-day.” She stretched her arms wide and raised her face to the skies. “That is why I came here,” she went on, “because it is so large and free up here and one can see the whole world.”

“Yes, I understand that feeling,” murmured Patty.

“Then, too, there is another thing,” Perdita continued. “Tomás was telling me that his brother has spoken of sending him to America. What if he goes and never comes back?”

“Yes, I know there has been some talk of it,” said Patty, thoughtfully. She remembered that it was to further Tomás’s success and enable him to marry that his brother had proposed the going to America. Alas, she was the cause of much trouble. “How soon do you go to the convent, Perdita?” she asked presently.

“Next month, señorita. I am to go to Llanes first and there I am to lay aside my peasant dress and be clothed as others are at the convent school.”

“And when you come away I have no doubt you will have pretty frocks like that you put on the other day and you will be very fine, Perdita, so that my sister and brother can have no objection to your becoming one of the family. It will really do much to make the future clear for you and Tomás.”

Perdita shook her head sadly. The two years seemed a lifetime in her young eyes and this parting from her lover the end of all things.

“I shall miss you,” said Patty, after a moment. “Everyone is leaving, it seems, and I shall be very lonely. I had a little present for you, Perdita, but it has been lost.” Then she told of what had happened, Perdita assuring her that she had not noticed the earrings upon the table.

“Oh, señorita, I will pray San Antonio for you,” she said, “and if you would take a figure of the saint and hang it down the well I am sure he would send back the earrings.”

Patty laughed outright, starting up some birds from the underbrush.

Perdita crossed herself. “Oh, but señorita, it is so, I have known it to happen.”

“Then I will get St. Anthony from the chapel and try it,” said Patty, the amusement still in her eyes. “Come, Perdita, don’t be so downcast. Why, I think your prospects are fine. So long as I am here I will keep a sharp eye on Tomás and if I see him casting sheep’s eyes—how do you call it?—mirada al soslayo, is that it? Oh, yes; very well, I will go at him with a vengeance. I don’t know how to say that exactly—con venganza, you understand?”

Perdita did and smiled faintly. It was something to leave behind her such a champion of her rights.

“Now,” said Patty, getting up. “I will take you as far as your turning off. Don’t be unhappy, Perdita. I will attend to St. Anthony and if there is any other one I can tackle who will make Master Tomás keep to his colors, I’ll attend to him, too.” She said this last in English, but the name of Tomás sounded encouraging and Perdita felt more comfortable.

“Was it because of all this you have been staying away?” Patty inquired, when they had started Guido on his homeward way.

“Yes, señorita. I was so troubled that I did not want anyone to see, and I knew I could not remember my lesson or think of anything as I should.”

“But you must not give up coming now that the time is so short, for even if we have no French we can converse in Spanish. I have learned much Spanish, have I not?”

“Yes, señorita; it is wonderful how in three months you have learned to speak so well.”

“I have worked very hard and have taken advantage of speaking whenever I could. One learns very fast in doing that. Is it three months?”

“Very nearly, señorita. It was at the feast of San Juan you saw me first and soon it will be the feast of San Matea, so that I know.”

They passed out of the lonely by-road to the carretera, and jogged along to where Perdita must take the path home. Just as they reached this point Don Felipe came riding by in the opposite direction. He stopped a moment, doffed his hat, gave the two girls a sharp scrutiny and rode on. A little later he overtook Patty. She was alone and was driving Guido leisurely toward home. Don Felipe slackened his pace. “Good evening, señorita,” he said, “so your companion has left you.”

“Yes, señor, she has gone to her home. She is a beautiful girl, is she not?”

“Very beautiful.”

“Did you recognize her that day when I presented her as the Señorita Gonzalez?”

“Not at once, for I do not notice peasants as a rule, then I recollected having seen her, or someone like her.”

“I don’t think Perdita should exactly be classed among the peasants.”

“Why so?”

“She is so gentle and good, so like a lady and with a very bright mind.”

“So I have been told.”

“She would grace any position in life with the proper education. She is very quick to learn.”

“Do you say so? Rather surprising in one of her class, isn’t it?”

“Perhaps, but you know she comes of good stock, of an old family which has deteriorated. I have been giving her French lessons and I have had an opportunity to observe her quickness. It seems she is to have a chance now, for she is going into a convent school. Her father, I believe, is sending her.”

“Her father? So she has one.”

“Yes, it seems she has, and she thinks he is in America and will return after a while.”

“Ah, she is fortunate in having someone who is not a mere tiller of the soil. So you think she will do him credit?”

“She would do anyone credit. I am much interested in her, and hope I may always keep her as a friend.”

“She certainly is most beautiful,” said the old don, musingly. “Here is your gate, señorita. I will come in, if you will permit. I should like a word with your good sister.”

He entered the house as Patty, driving around to the side, saw Guido was handed over to the men at the stables. Don Felipe was in earnest conversation with her sister when she returned. “Come over, Patty,” Doña Martina invited her, “and give us your opinion on a most important subject.”

“Yes, señorita, I beg of you.” Don Felipe arose and handed her a chair. “There is no one whose opinion is of more importance to me. I am thinking of making a few alterations and repairs to my old house which you have honored with your presence. I am also thinking of refurnishing and decorating some of the rooms. This will come later, for I shall make haste slowly, yet I should like your ideas on the subject. Which rooms, in your estimation, would a lady prefer for her apartments?”

“Oh, I should think those looking over toward the garden and the mountains.”

Don Felipe nodded. “And not those on the front?”

“No, one gets tired of droves of oxen and cow-carts passing on the carretera, whereas the mountains are ever changing and the birds come and go among the flowers in the garden so that one has always something pleasant to look at.”

“Then those rooms without question.”

“Unless the lady cares for none of those things.”

“I think her taste would be much like yours. Later on I shall ask your valuable suggestions in the matter of furnishing. I have a lot of old stuff, but—”

“Oh, do use all you can of it, for it is so much better suited to that fine old place than any modern things could be, or, if you must get new, let it be as little as possible.”

“Your taste is excellent, señorita, but do not young ladies generally prefer something brighter and lighter, more in keeping with their charming selves?”

“Those qualities can be considered in the frescoes and the draperies.”

“Oh, I see. When it comes to that point I shall, if I may, ask your invaluable aid in selecting the proper stuffs. Your sister tells me that Mlle. Delambre, is fiancée to a young Frenchman.”

“Yes, and quite happy.”

“She is rather an attractive girl, but there are others far more so. I prefer a dark type of beauty myself.”

Patty glanced at her sister whose face was a study. Then Don Juan entered and the talk fell upon the respective values of certain antiques, and the two ladies left the men in the heart of an animated discussion.

“What do you suppose he is going to do?” Patty asked her sister when they were safe outside.

“You goose, he is thinking of marrying, of course.”

“But whom is he going to marry?”

Her sister laughed. “I should think it pretty evident whom he had in mind.”

Patty looked puzzled and ran over the conversation. “You surely don’t mean me?” she said, after a pause.

“Who else?”

“I am sure I don’t know, but oh, dear, after the way I have snubbed him, he must be an idiot to think I can be picked out and carried home like a door-knocker or an antique plate.”

“It is his conceit, my dear, which makes him think he can do just that thing. When he is all ready he imagines all he will have to do will be to call upon your proper guardians, present his request in proper form and forthwith it will be granted with an appropriate degree of gratitude for the honor. You must remember that he is a blue-blood hidalgo, and that a simple little American girl like yourself could not think of refusing him.”

“Then just let him go ahead and find out, the old silly thing. I hope you will encourage him to spend all he will upon the house; it needs it, heaven knows. I shall do my best to egg him on, and then see how beautifully he will get fooled.”

“You are really in a temper about it.”

“Of course I am.”

“But fancy what a triumph to write to Paulette and announce that you are to marry him. She was ready enough to become mistress of that old palacio, for all she pretended the master was too old. I saw things, my dear, and I know.”

Patty laughed. “You are actually scheming, yourself, but no Auld Robin Grey for me, if you please.”

“You know I didn’t mean it, Patty. Of course, I couldn’t when there is—Tomás.”

“Oh, yes,” Patty’s face clouded, “there is Tomás.”

“What has happened, Patty, child? I have noticed that you avoid him of late. Have you quarreled?”

“No, but—”

“You feel conscious, dear child. Of course since you are aware that we know how matters stand, I can appreciate how you might feel. Never mind, Juan is doing his best to settle Tomás’s future and when all is arranged you can be regularly engaged, Don Felipe or no Don Felipe.”

Patty put her arms around her sister. “Tina, you are a perfect darling, and I am an ungrateful wretch. There is time enough to think about my affairs, for I am ‘ower young to marry.’ I shall want my freedom for years to come.”

“You are likely to have it,” returned her sister, gravely, “if Tomás goes to seek his fortune in Mexico.”

Patty made no reply but her thoughts flew back to the lonely hill and the girl lying prone on her face in the long grass.

## CHAPTER XVI

### BY REASON OF SAINT ANTHONY

Remembering the next morning her laughing promise to Perdita that she would make use of St. Anthony’s powers in trying to find the lost earrings, Patty went to the dim little chapel in order to abstract the figure of the saint. She was still child enough to enjoy the prospect of dangling the image down the well, with no feeling of irreverence in doing so. “If these people think it all right, why shouldn’t I?” she asked herself. As she opened the door leading into the chapel she observed two faintly gleaming candles at the side of the altar and going forward she perceived that they were burning before the figure of St. Anthony himself.

“Now, who has put those up there?” she exclaimed. “I suppose whoever it is, he or she will be distressed if I take the old fellow away. Besides, he looks so comfortable and complacent standing there I’d better not disturb him. The candles have done at least this much good; they have saved him from a dousing.”

She went out the smaller door, up the long flight of steps and into the upper room where her sister was sitting knitting her brows over her weekly accounts.

“There is something wrong here,” said Doña Martina, looking up. “Patty, just run over these figures and see if you can find any mistake in it. I am sure with no one at home but Juan and ourselves there should be less spent than when the family was larger, yet it is just the same amount.”

Patty took the book and added up the column. “I make it exactly the same as you do,” she announced the result.

“Then I am sure I have made no mistake. I wish you would go down and ask Manuela to come here to me.”

Patty did as she was requested and stayed below to watch her favorite pair of pigeons, Alphonso and Victoria, and to stick red geraniums over the ears of Ba-Ba the pet lamb which had been Perdita’s gift on the day of San Juan. Ba-Ba, tethered out of reach of the choicest flowers, was nibbling at such delectable morsels as he could find, but upon seeing Patty set up a plaintive bleat, knowing he might be set free if Patty were at hand. His hopes were not without foundation, for the girl unfastened the rope which held him and he capered off with a fling up of his heels that showed his joy.

“Now behave yourself, or I will tie you up again,” Patty warned him. “Doña Martina doesn’t allow any liberties taken with her flowers, remember. I suppose I shall have to watch you.” She sat down on an old stone bench from which she could watch the lamb’s movements. Presently Anita came out with something hidden under her apron. She started at sight of Patty, and went back.

“Now what did she do that for,” said Patty to herself. “She looked scared at sight of me. I must go in and find out. Come here, Ba-Ba.” But there was no “come here” comprehended by Ba-Ba. He had his freedom and meant to make the most of it. So he led Patty a chase around the garden, dodging under bushes, squeezing through shrubbery, kicking up his heels and prancing off with tail straight out, and a shake of his head which said, “Catch me if you can.” But at last Patty managed to outwit him and dragged him back to his corner, where he was again made fast and allowed but a small area for pasture.

As Patty entered the kitchen, flushed from her exercise, Anita did not stir from her work of preparing vegetables, but kept her eyes cast down. Manuela was still upstairs. “What is the matter, Anita?” Patty asked, after watching the girl for a moment or two.

“Nothing, señorita.”

“Oh, but there is. What did you have under your apron when you came into the garden just now, and why did you run back in such haste?”

The color came into Anita’s face. “Why, señorita, I—I was just going to the chapel for a moment.”

“Is the outer door unlocked then? I thought one could get in only by the upper door.”

“It is unlocked, yes, señorita.”

“Then, perhaps—” she stopped to think, “perhaps it was you who set the candles before St. Anthony.”

Anita dropped into the pan of vegetables the knife she was holding and began to cry. “Oh, señorita,” she complained.

“Have you lost something?”

“Oh, señorita, you know.”

“I am sure I don’t know, and if you wanted to set the candles there I don’t see why you should not.”

“Yes, señorita, I know, but the earrings—those which you lost.”

“I see. And you thought we might believe you took them, so you are burning candles to St. Anthony that they may be restored?”

“Yes, señorita.”

At this juncture Manuela came in. “Anita, the señora wants you. What are you crying for?”

Anita did not reply, but set down the pan and prepared to go upstairs.

“She may well weep,” said Manuela, severely. “One cannot buy candles without money.”

“What do you mean, Manuela?” inquired Patty. “I know Anita has been burning candles to St. Anthony because she thinks we suspect her of taking the earrings. Of course I know they have not been found, and we cannot see how they could be spirited away, but we have not charged anyone.”

“The huestas, señorita, or the gipsies. An evil eye have the gipsies and who knows? Who knows? If they bewitch a thing, no hay remedia, yet I do not say they may not be found, those earrings. Once I lost a brooch which my mother had given me. I searched for a month in great trouble, and one day when I was going to church, as I took up my mantilla, behold the brooch had caught in the lace and had been there all the time. I told the padre and he said it was a righteous punishment. If I had gone at once to church to pray to St. Anthony I would have probably taken out my mantilla and so have discovered the brooch. I deserved to worry,” he said.

This gave Patty an idea and she hurried to her room, took her mantilla from the drawer where she had placed it the day her sister gave it to her, and shook it out. Sure enough from it dropped one of the earrings. The other was found clinging to the lace threads by reason of the open filigree. Gathering all up Patty ran into the living-room where Anita, bowed before Doña Martina, was sobbing out a confession.

“And so, when you went to market each time you took a little of my money to buy candles to burn to St. Anthony,” Doña Martina was saying.

“Yes, señora. I had to give all my wages to my family, and I had no money. The candles had to be bought. What could I do?”

“But, girl, don’t you see that it was stealing, and that it was worse to take a thing than to be suspected when you were innocent?”

“I had to get the candles and there was no other way,” repeated Anita, through her tears.

“The earrings are found,” announced Patty, holding them up. “They had caught in the lace of my mantilla, and when I put that away the earrings went, too. They were lying on the same table, you remember.”

“Oh, señora! Señorita!” Anita sprang to her feet and smiled through her tears. “So you see St. Anthony did find them, and it must have been because of the candles. Oh, I am so glad.”

“But Anita, that doesn’t lessen the fact that you took my money,” expostulated Doña Martina.

“But it was only for the candles, señora, and you see for yourself that St. Anthony—”

Doña Martina stopped her with a wave of the hand and turned to her sister. “It is impossible to make her understand,” she said. “You may go down, Anita, but if ever again you are guilty of taking even so much as a penny of what is not yours, I shall dismiss you at once, St. Anthony or Saint anybody else.”

“But he did find them,” murmured Anita, as she cheerfully went back to her work.

“There is no use trying to teach them a proper standard in matters of this kind,” said Doña Martina, “and I suppose the girl is honest enough in other directions. She was greatly distressed over the possibility of being suspected and Manuela told me of the candles and of herself wondering where Anita got the money for them. So long as the earrings are found I suppose even Manuela will see no wrong in what Anita did. I am glad they are not lost, Patty, and that you discovered them in this special way; it makes us all more comfortable.”

“I shall not allow them to be neighbors to any more lacey things,” declared Patty. “I will put them in a box and give them to Perdita as soon as I can. Still working over the accounts, Tina?”

Her sister sighed. “Yes, I must keep down expenses, for small as they really are, I must try to save all I can for emergencies.”

“Poor darling.” Patty laid her cheek against her sister’s hair. “And if I should accept the renovated palacio you would be free of me at least.”

“Don’t talk so,” returned her sister, sharply. “As if I could be happy for a moment knowing you had sacrificed yourself. It isn’t as bad as that, Patty. There is quite enough for us all, and we should keep up this house just the same whether you were here or not. Surely when you make no demands upon anyone in other directions you should not feel under any obligation.”

“I suppose I should not, only I hate to see you worried. If we sell the old home, Tina, will there be more?”

“Very likely not, unless we could invest it so that the interest would bring in more than the rent does now. You need not think of that, dear. We are really living on much less than we could anywhere else, only I am ambitious to do better that we may put by for a rainy day. In Juan’s state of health that seems important, and moreover, I take a sort of pride in seeing how well I can do on the least amount.”

“Can I help you?”

“No, I must do it myself. Run along and don’t worry.”

Patty went slowly downstairs. What a dear Tina it was and how abominably she was treating her by allowing her to believe things which were not so. “I’ll have to ’fess some day, I suppose,” she said, “but if Perdita goes to the convent and Tomás to America there is no hurry. I wonder when Tomás will be back, by the way.”

She stopped to have a word with Manuela who was eager to hear more of the discovery of the lost earrings, and then she went out to the garden. She wandered through its paths unheeding Ba-Ba’s plaintive bleating. When she came to the door of the chapel she tried it and found it opened. She entered to find the candles before St. Anthony were low in their sockets. One flickered and went out as she stood watching it. “I wonder,” said she addressing the figure before her, “if you can also restore friends. I think candles seem more efficacious than the dousing; suppose I try candles.” She stood watching the expiring flame of the second candle when she heard the door behind her close, and a footstep on the stone floor, then someone gave an apologetic little cough.

“Is that you, Tomás?” asked Patty. “There, I said I wouldn’t look around till it went out and it has almost. Well?”

“It isn’t Tomás, Miss Patty; it is I.”

“Oh!” Patty wheeled around, the flickering candle sending up a last dying gleam. “You? It is you?”

“Yes, I am sorry if you are disappointed, but I can’t help being just Robert Lisle.”

“And I can’t help being surprised when you have been away such a long, long while. How have you been?”

“I have been quite well, though I, too, appreciate that it has been a long, long while, and I have come back because I couldn’t stay away any longer.”

“Couldn’t you? Why?”

“Because you and your sister are the only home folks I have in this land.”

Patty stiffened ever so little. “I suppose you have come to say good-bye. Do you return to England soon?”

“Not yet awhile. There is nothing special to take me there. My cousin, Walter Sterling, is with my grandfather and neither needs me.”

“But what of Miss Moffatt?”

“Her memory was buried, you know.”

“And has not been resurrected?”

“No.”

“Will you tell me about her; you said you would some day. Has she light hair? She is like a gray day, I remember, but I want to know not so much what she is as who she is.”

“She has quite light hair, yes, and blue eyes. How did you guess? She is the girl my grandfather expects me to marry.”

“Does she expect it?”

“She has no reason to. We have been friends for a couple of years and I have paid her a few dutiful attentions. She is wealthy and of good family.”

Patty’s chin went up. “So she has all that is desirable. When may we congratulate you?”

“Oh, but aren’t you forging ahead rather fast? Have you forgotten the obsequies?”

“No, I haven’t forgotten but—she seems so exactly the proper choice.”

“So my grandfather says, but I do not say so. She is not my choice and I have written to say so. She will not want for suitors. They are liable to come forward in numbers.”

“But what if—”

“Go on, please.”

“What if you are her choice? What if she believes herself to be the one you have chosen?”

“I do not see how she could think that.”

“You write to her?”

“I wrote once, a friendly letter when I first came away. The second letter I destroyed without sending. I have told my grandfather that, while I appreciated all he had done for me, in matters of this kind I must use my own judgment and that Miss Moffatt was not the woman for me, this I had discovered since I came to Spain.”

“I thought ‘absence made the heart grow fonder’?”

“It does in some cases, as I can speak from my own experience.”

Why did Patty suddenly lean forward to put an extinguishing finger on the smoking wick, since there was not light enough to discover the red which flamed up into her cheek. She said not a word but stood looking at St. Anthony.

“I am thinking of going to America, to the States,” the young man went on. “If my father left me no fortune, at least he left me friends and relatives over there who are warm-hearted and sincere.”

“Tomás is going to America, perhaps, and Perdita to a convent. Polly is going to be married and—oh, dear—”

“But there is still Don Felipe.”

“Yes, but what of him?”

“Exactly. What of him?”

“He is getting very frivolous in his old age and is talking of making all sorts of changes at the palacio.”

“What for?”

“We think he is preparing for a young wife.”

“And who might she be?”

“She might be most anyone, but there are reasons why we suspect he believes she will be your humble servant.”

“Oh!” The exclamation came sharply.

It hurt him, of that Patty was sure and her tender heart could not bear to see anyone hurt. “I didn’t say,” she broke the silence, “I was the one, I only said we thought he rather counted on it, just as your grandfather counted on Miss Moffatt, and with just as much result.”

“I am very glad of that.” The words came simply. Then after a pause: “And Tomás?”

“I could tell you tales of Tomás, but I must not. He is a dear lad and I am very fond of him, but he is going to America, as I said, and may be gone two or three years.”

Robert drew a sigh as of one rid of a load, and again silence fell.

“How did you know I was in here?” Patty asked presently.

“When I came I asked for the ladies. Doña Martina was upstairs I was told and the señorita Patty had gone into the chapel, Anita had just observed. Would I join her there? So I came and found you.”

“Are you going soon to the States?”

“I don’t know. My business here is about over. It has not been disappointing, and may lead to other things of the same sort. There is some talk of an English syndicate, composed of the same men, who may conclude to work some mines in our West. I am talked of in connection with that if it materializes, but it will not be for some months; those things take time. Aside from that I have no special prospects, and shall go to Kentucky or elsewhere as circumstances direct.”

This time it was Patty who gave a long sigh as of content. “Will you go in and see Tina?” she asked. There were hours, days, perhaps weeks ahead, and one need be in no haste when time was not an object.

They left St. Anthony in darkness and took the upper way to the house to find Doña Martina had finished her accounts and was wondering where Robert was, Anita having told her of his arrival.

## CHAPTER XVII

### PATTY IS PUZZLED

Fearing a second accident to the earrings Patty resolved the next day to take them to Perdita whom she had not seen since the meeting on the lonely hill. There was no fear of missing a visit from Robert, since Patty in a tremor lest he should believe her too eager to see him, had said she would not be at home till later. It was a fine calm morning when she started out. Over the mountains was a blue haze, the sky toward the west was golden clear, but along the mountain tops soft mists drifted, once in a while lifting to show the outline of the range which continued on and on to the sea. The summer was nearly over but the air was still warm and balmy, and there was no prospect of chill in it.

Leaving Ba-Ba bleating after her and Guido looking out from his stable window the girl went on foot past the garden and up the long crooked path leading to the mountain. The gipsies had long since departed, only the blackened embers of their camp fire giving evidence of their ever having been there. As she walked along, Patty pondered on the gipsy’s prophecy. The fair-haired woman must be Miss Moffatt of whom she no longer felt jealous. Why should she, since all that affair was closed? Though perhaps, after all, the grandfather would be so angry that Robert would not be able to stand out against him. Yet, it was a comfort to know that so far there had been no sentimental passages in the direction of “the drab girl,” as Patty had come to call her. As for the rest, would all end as she wished? She was singularly light of heart as she walked along. The world seemed suddenly brighter, her troubles of less account. “I know now why I was unhappy,” she told herself, “but I didn’t know till I saw him. I really didn’t, and that is why I was afraid to see him this morning too early. I was afraid he would find out too soon what I have only just learned myself. I can appreciate now how Perdita felt. Poor Perdita, I wonder what will be her future?”

She climbed on up the height till just ahead she saw the little farmstead, then she suddenly stopped. Surely that was Don Felipe’s horse! And, yes, it was Don Felipe himself standing there in earnest conversation with old Catalina. Surely he was counting out money. Patty crept behind the hedge and waited. She would not intrude. She would stay where she was till the transaction was over. What did it mean? Was he buying some curio? It must be very valuable, for that was the gleam of gold and those were banknotes which Catalina was stowing away. Why was Don Felipe so lavish all at once? Suddenly it came over her like a flash that perhaps it was he who was educating Perdita, and that it was Perdita whom he wanted to marry.

Her face dimpled. “What a joke on us if it is so,” she murmured. Then she became very grave. Poor Perdita! poor Tomás! Was this why Perdita had not appeared at the house for several days? Had she kept back a part of her trouble, and was this why she had seemed so despairing? Patty was puzzled.

She kept in hiding till Don Felipe had mounted his horse and had gone trotting by, then she waited till a turn in the road hid him from view before she crept out and went up to the house. Her knock at the door was answered by Catalina. No, Perdita was not in; she had gone to the village perhaps, or to the cura. Catalina did not know which. Would the señorita come in and wait? She must be tired from the climb. How was the good doctor and his señora? Praise the saints, she, Catalina was well, and had nothing to complain of now that she had her eyes again.

But Patty would not stay. She made her adieu and went off without referring to the plans for Perdita’s future, and without mentioning that she had been witness to Don Felipe’s visit. On the way home conjectures were rife. She knew Catalina was avaricious and that for money she would readily bargain with Don Felipe. Moreover, what a triumph for her ambition if he were to marry her granddaughter. That he was much impressed by the girl, Patty had every reason to know. “And it is probably all my doing,” she said, ruefully. “If I had not dressed her up that day he would never have noticed her one way or the other, but what old man, or young one either, could resist anything so lovely as she was. I never saw anyone so beautiful. No wonder he completely lost his head. Poor Tomás! Poor Perdita! For of course she will have to marry him, if he has the grandmother and the cura on his side. Fancy Perdita’s being at the head of that old palacio and fancy the surprise of Tomás.”

Arriving at home she found her sister at the door looking after a figure which was fast disappearing down the road. “Robert has been here; he has just gone.”

“Oh!” Patty felt bitter disappointment. Why couldn’t he have waited five minutes longer, when she had told him she would not be back till later in the morning? If he were so impatient to see her could he not have remained till she returned? Yet none of this would she betray to her sister, so she said with seeming indifference, “He seems to be in a hurry. Heigho! it isn’t as cool as one would suppose. I have been walking too fast. Has Tomás come back yet?”

“Yes, I believe so, though he has not arrived at the house. Come in, Patty; or, no, let us go into the summer-house. I want to talk to you.”

Patty glanced at her sister. There was unusual gravity in her tones and the girl’s heart beat fast. Had the moment arrived for revelations? And was she ready to face them? She showed none of her perturbation, however, but said lightly, “I went to carry Perdita her earrings, but there seems to be a fatality about them, for I had to bring them back again, as she was not there. I didn’t want to leave them, for I don’t exactly trust that old grandmother. She said Perdita was not at home.”

“Yes, I know she was not.”

“Why, has she been here?”

“No. Sit down, Patty, and let us talk things over. If I am not mistaken, there has been some deception going on.”

Patty seated herself on the stool opposite her sister, in the same spot she had occupied when Doña Martina looked in upon herself and Tomás that fatal day. “What do you mean?” she asked faintly.

“I mean that either you and Tomás have been pulling the wool over my eyes or that you and I both are greatly deceived. That sly, designing girl!”

“Now, Tina, please—”

“I forget, you may not know, poor child. I must tell you, then, for your own good, that this morning I started out to see one of Juan’s patients and carry her some broth. I took a short cut through the woods and suddenly saw ahead of me Tomás and Perdita. They were so absorbed that they did not see me, and I turned back at once, so I suppose I was not seen at all, though I made no mistake in recognizing them, and then, Patty, dear, you were right in the very beginning. He is a wolf in sheep’s clothing.” She stretched out her hand and clasped her sister’s, “But it is better you should know before it is too late. He had his arm around Perdita, her head was on his shoulder and she was evidently crying while he tried to comfort her.” Doña Martina’s voice shook as she spoke.

Patty nervously withdrew her hand. “I think I can explain it,” she said. “I believe I know why Perdita was crying.” Then she told of what she had seen that morning, and of the conclusion she had drawn. “So, you see,” she said with a little half smile, “it will settle any affair between Tomás and Perdita, and I suppose they were taking a last sad farewell.”

Her sister regarded her with surprised eyes. “But, Patty,” she cried, “you take it so calmly. Don’t you really care that Tomás has been trifling with both of you?”

“He hasn’t been, Tina, dear. Oh, I know I am a sad sinner, but really Tomás and I have never had the little tender meetings you imagine. The whole world might have heard what we had to say, so far as we personally are concerned. That day when you came upon us in here, I had just promised to stand by him and Perdita, who have been in love with each other for two years, and he was only expressing his gratitude. Now, wait a minute before you say anything. They felt that they could not grieve Juan, who has been so good to them both, and so they have kept the affair a secret. Neither one would have been willing to marry without Juan’s consent, and would even have given up one another, but I advised them to wait and see what time would develop. You see what has happened and you ought to feel terribly sorry for them instead of blaming them. It is not in the least surprising that a young man left entirely alone, as Tomás was, should find consolation in the loveliest girl in the vicinity, or that she should give her love to him, and I think they are to be pitied.”

“I do feel sorry for them. But, Patty, were you never the least in love with Tomás?”

“Never, never. We are excellent friends, and all of that getting off by ourselves and the whisperings were because we wanted to discuss all this which I have been telling you. Perdita is a darling and I am perfectly disgusted that she is to marry that old mummy.”

“But you only surmise that.”

“To be sure. Yet I think all points that way, don’t you?”

“I must confess I do.” Doña Martina sat silent with hands folded across the table, a look of sadness upon her fine face. Presently she sighed deeply. “Patty,” she said, “I didn’t think you could so deceive your sister. I think that part grieves me more than all the rest.”

“Oh, I know I am a perfect wretch, but I didn’t realize till I was in the thick of it, and then I didn’t like to go back on my word. At first I did it only to tease you. I thought it was such fun to pretend that Tomás and I were smitten with one another, but after a while I got deeper and deeper into the affair. I felt so conscience-smitten and you were such a darling. I realize that I am a perfect ingrate, and I feel as grieved about myself as you do.” The tears came to her eyes. “It has taught me a lesson and I shall never again put my finger into another such a pie. Please say you forgive me, Tina, and that you are sorry for Tomás and Perdita.”

“I forgive you, Patty, of course, though I am dreadfully hurt that you should have acted so, yet on the whole I think I am relieved that it is not Tomás. I tried to make the best of it and would have accepted the situation gracefully, I hope, but now that it seems probable that Juan will cut loose from here after a little, and that Tomás will probably go to Mexico, we should have been separated after all, and I am glad to keep my sister near me for a while, naughty as she is.”

“And are you sorry it is not for her that the grand palacio is to be fitted up?”

“Not in the least. I know your mind on that subject.” She was silent for a moment, then she said, “There is another thing, Patty, although I see now that I was wrong in thinking you might be trifling with Tomás; what about Robert Lisle? I am afraid he thinks a great deal of you.”

Patty’s head drooped and she played nervously with her handkerchief, folding and unfolding it on the table. “What makes you think that?” she at last found voice to say.

“He has just been here, you know, and from what he said, I gathered that he—cared—but, as he said, he has his way to make and he has no right to speak. He said that in time he hoped to be sufficiently established to be able to offer a home to the woman he wished to marry. In the meantime, it was not honorable, he thought, for him to stand in the way of a worthier man or of a more prosperous marriage, should one offer. So he must keep silence.”

“And then?”

“And then,” her sister gave a searching look at the still downcast face, “oh, Patty, I told him that it was Tomás, and oh, dear, he looked like one smitten and I was afraid you have been playing with him instead of Tomás. I was so possessed with the idea that it was Tomás, you see, and I thought it would be kinder to let him go without seeing you, and so—he has gone.”

“Not gone altogether? He is coming back to say good-bye to me? You don’t mean gone away from here?” Patty stretched out her hands imploringly.

“I am afraid so. It did seem better. He left his good-byes and best wishes for your happiness.” There was real distress in Doña Martina’s tones.

“And he will go to England, and she has light hair!” cried Patty wildly. “Oh, Tina, what have you done? What have you done?”

“I didn’t know, dear. I didn’t know. Oh, if you had only confided in me.”

“I didn’t confide in myself, and I didn’t know either, not till this time when he came back. I had been unhappy sometimes, but I didn’t know why, and when he came into the chapel yesterday I was never so glad to see anyone in all my life and then—I knew—but I thought he was going to stay on and on and on, and it was like a beautiful dream that I didn’t want to waken from. I thought—I almost knew he cared—but I wanted the secret all to myself until—until he really said so. Oh, Tina, don’t say he has actually gone. He couldn’t have. Why, it is only a few minutes ago I saw him walking down the road.”

“I know dear child, but I think he meant to put the matter to a test to-day, for he told me he should be able to make the train, and I have heard it whistle since we sat here. I fancy he was prepared for what he might hear from me.”

Patty still held out shaking hands. “Why didn’t you tell me at once—at once?” She felt that she could have rushed after him, have gone on wings of mad longing and have intercepted him before he should get away.

“Because, dear, as I have told you, I didn’t dream but that it was Tomás, and I was so full of that as the prime matter of importance that I let the other go till I should have discussed the thing that was uppermost in my mind. However,” she added comfortingly, “I will send a note to the fonda at once, in case he is still there. I will go now and write so that Anita can take it.”

“Did he say where he was going from here?” inquired Patty, lifting her head, which she had dropped on her arms.

“No. He said he would write me when he felt equal to it, poor boy.”

“Don’t, don’t,” wailed Patty. “It isn’t your fault, Tina; it is all mine, all, all. I’ve been an idiot all the way through. I’ve been a silly, stupid, ungrateful wretch and I haven’t been true to anyone.”

“Except Tomás and Perdita, dear girl, and you have been too true to them. After all, as I think of it, I am the only one with whom you have not been quite sincere, for now I know about Tomás, I don’t see that you have been untrue to any other than your cross old sister.”

“You’re not cross; you are a darling; the best sister in the world. It is I who have been all in the wrong and I am being punished for it.” She dropped her head again.

Her sister leaned over and passed her hand caressingly over the dark hair. “I will go and send the note now, dear, and if he has not gone we can soon set the matter right. Do you care so much you would be willing to wait, perhaps for years, Patty, darling?”

“I’d wait for him years, yes, a lifetime. I am young and I have you, Tina. Oh, keep me close beside you. I am so miserable! I am so miserable! How can anyone be so unhappy all of a sudden?”

“It isn’t irretrievable, dearest.” Her sister knelt down beside her. “I can write to England; we know where his grandfather lives, and I will send a letter there telling of my mistake.”

“Oh, but you mustn’t—you mustn’t say it makes any difference to me; I couldn’t stand that.”

“Dear little sister, trust to me. I will manage so he will know that it is not Tomás, and that will be enough.”

With this comfort and the hope that the young man really might not have gone, Patty was obliged to be satisfied, but she sat in the summer-house alone while her sister went to despatch the note. She heard Anita go forth and knew it would be nearly an hour before she could be expected to return, yet still she sat and waited. After a long time she heard her sister’s footsteps, though she did not dare to hope, but,—ah, if it should be!

Doña Martina came softly in and laid a hand on the bowed head. “I am so grieved to tell you, dear little girl, but he had gone.”

“I knew it, I knew it,” murmured Patty.

“Tomás has come in and he looks as unhappy as you. Oh, you poor children, you poor children, all of you so miserable. I think, dear, if you will consider, the plight of Tomás and Perdita is far worse than yours, for theirs is hopeless while yours is not.”

“We don’t know that,” returned Patty, whose thoughts had been very busy. “He may go straight off and marry Miss Moffatt.”

“And who is she?”

“The girl his grandfather wants him to marry.”

“Oh, I didn’t know about her. I must not delay in writing to him, then. I will find an excuse this very night and I will make a point of putting my own name and address on the outside of the envelope.” This she did, and the days lagged heavily enough till a reply might be expected, but none came; instead the letter was returned with “Address unknown” written across it.

Meanwhile Perdita had gone to Llanes to remain a couple of weeks while her wardrobe was being prepared. Only once had Patty seen her and that was when she came to say good-bye. With heavy eyes the two looked on one another, each so filled with her own sorrow that she had nothing but commonplaces in the way of speech. Patty gave the earrings as a parting gift; Perdita brought as a last token a piece of her embroidery. So they parted and who could tell what turn of fate would bring them together again?

## CHAPTER XVIII

### WAITING

It was not long after Perdita’s departure that Tomás, too, left home to take a position in Mexico which had been secured for him by some friends of his brother’s, and with him gone Patty felt that she had lost her last young companion. The two had become fast friends and comrades, and with the utter disappearance of Robert Lisle, and with Perdita removed, Don Juan and his wife sometimes whispered to one another that perhaps, after all, the one’s brother and the other’s sister might find consolation in a mature affection in the years to come. “One so seldom marries one’s first love,” remarked Doña Martina, “and they are all so young, of course they will recover, especially as they are so entirely separated from the objects of their affection.” She had, nevertheless, written to her Uncle Henry Beckwith, had asked if any news had been had of Robert Lisle, and in time received the reply that at last reports he was about to go to South Africa with a party of Englishmen, and that nothing had been heard from him since.

South Africa! To Patty this might as well have been out of the world. She could no longer be called the Glad Lady, though her natural exuberance would often come to the front, yet her face had become more thoughtful, the girlish roundness was departing from it, and the knowledge of womanhood’s reality showed in the expression of the lovely eyes. She spent much time in the little chapel where she and Robert had last met, and would sit there in front of St. Anthony lost in dreams. If only she had not gone that morning to Perdita’s with the earrings. Such a slight thing to change one’s whole life, “The little more and how much it is—” When her thoughts had traveled over and over the same ground till they maddened her, she would get up and go out to Guido, who, in these days, was more petted than ever before. He had grown so sleek and fat that his former master would never have recognized him. Indeed, with his pretty new harness and trappings, Patty had taken delight in showing him off to Don Felipe, who could scarcely believe this to be the forlorn, scrubby little beast which the beggar had ridden. “So, you see,” Patty had said, “after all, it was a great bargain,” a fact which Don Felipe was obliged to admit, if unwillingly.

The old don came often, generally with a roll of drawings tucked under his arm. These would be spread out and much discussed, for they represented plans for alterations or decorations, and in them Patty took a lively interest, although she felt many pangs of sympathy for Perdita, lonely and homesick away off in Madrid, for thus far had she gone.

“This room would be charming in rose pink,” said Patty one day, when she had been going over some plans with Don Felipe. “She would look lovely against such a background with her hair and eyes.”

The old don gave a suspicious glance from his sharp eyes.

“Oh, you needn’t think you are going to surprise us all so very much,” Patty went on, the old mischief returning to her face. “I have pretty good reasons for believing our friend Perdita will some day grace your palacio.”

“And why?” The man looked down and nervously fumbled at the edge of the paper he was holding.

“Well, in the first place, I saw you were much impressed the day I presented her as the Señorita Gonzalez, and in the second place, I happened to see you one day when you were having an interview with her grandmother, and then, when it became apparent that you were fitting up your house for the reception of a young wife, it was not difficult to draw conclusions, was it?”

Don Felipe smiled. “Well, you will admit that I have shown good taste,” he remarked.

“Excellent; I never saw a more beautiful girl, and she is as good as she is lovely.”

“I believe that, otherwise—but now, since you have put this and that together so cleverly, you must let me thank you for showing such favor to her, and for permitting me to become acquainted with the beauty and virtues of the future mistress of my house. I have but one more request to make, and that is that you will respect my secret until such time as I may be ready to make it public. It is a little whim of mine to give a surprise to my friends at large.”

“You do not mind my sister’s knowing, do you? She already suspects.”

“No, for I am sure you are both honorable ladies, who can be discreet as well as silent when occasion requires.”

“You can depend upon us, Don Felipe,” returned Patty quietly. Poor Perdita, so there was no longer any doubt, and poor Tomás!

When Don Felipe had carried off his papers and his coach had borne him away, Patty sought her sister. “It is quite true, Tina,” she said; “Don Felipe has confessed that it is Perdita for whom he is getting the house ready, but he bound me over to secrecy, or, at least, he said you could know, too, but he trusted to us not to tell anyone. He was really very nice about it, and if it were not for Tomás, I should feel that Perdita need not be pitied after all, for from her point of view she will be making a great match.”

“Yes, there is not a doubt of that, and of course we can understand that he doesn’t want the subject made the talk of the province, as it would be. I quite respect his desire to keep it a secret. I am surprised, however, that he should be spending all this on his house for a bride who is unused to any such splendor.”

“That is just it, I think; he wants to dazzle her, and play up to his character of King Cophetua. Then, too, I think he will enjoy seeing her beauty in a proper setting; he has not an inartistic taste, that old don.”

“I suppose he has made us the recipients of his confidences because he is aware that we know few people, and that, as two foreigners, we would be less likely to noise the matter abroad.”

“Very likely that is it, yet I think he is really fond of us, in his way.”

“I think he was very fond of you, and maybe still is, in a certain way. I am sure it was only Perdita who could have cut you out.”

Patty laughed. “Well, it is too late now for any regrets, isn’t it? I wouldn’t look badly myself in that rose-colored room. Tina,” she went on after a pause, “suppose he should die, or Catalina should, before the two years are up, no one could force her to marry him, for Tomás told me she has sworn that she will never, never consent willingly, and that she will be true to him.”

“She knows, then?”

“She suspects, or at least only suspected at first. Don Felipe had been to the house two or three times, had talked to her quite as one on intimate terms, and he gave her a parting gift of a handsome jewel, so you see she had to believe it, though she has all along clung to the idea that it was her father in South America who was doing all this for her. Her grandmother insisted that she should accept whatever Don Felipe offered and became very angry one day and threatened to tell the cura when Perdita protested. She still believes that her father may prove the one hope on which she can rely to escape, yet as she does not know where he is, and the grandmother would move heaven and earth in order to further this marriage, I don’t see that there is much chance. Tomás told me most of all this. Tina, if any one of these things did happen, would Juan be willing to accept Perdita?” the girl asked after a pause.

“Oh, my dear, I don’t know. He was much cut up when he first heard of the affair, but since all has turned out this way he has scarcely referred to the matter again, for, indeed, there seemed no need to.”

“Two years—they have been in love with each other for two years,” said Patty thoughtfully.

“How do you know?”

“Oh, they have confided everything in me. It was after his mother’s death, and Tomás was lonely and for a time not well. Perdita used to come to his housekeeper with messages from her grandmother, and once when the old housekeeper was ill Perdita stayed to help her, and in that way the two became better acquainted, and so it began. Then he would sometimes, as if by accident, walk in her direction, or they would meet on the road when he had been to see Father Ignacio, and after a while they met more and more frequently, then one day a vaquero coming along said something impertinent to Perdita and Tomás was furious; that was when they found out how much they cared, and after that they would meet secretly, for they did not want anyone to talk about them. Tomás felt that Perdita’s reputation must not suffer, though all the time Tomás declared they must marry as soon as they could. No doubt they would have done so, if we had not all appeared on the scene. Poor dears, how unhappy they must be.”

“It is a pity, a great pity,” said Doña Martina slowly. “That is what comes of shutting oneself away from companions of one’s own class. If Tomás had met girls of the proper kind, he would have escaped this unfortunate attachment.”

“But the poor lad; he couldn’t help himself. He couldn’t leave his mother when she needed him, and was the only child left to her.”

“I know, I know,” interrupted Doña Martina hastily. “I am not blaming him, Patty. I am only saying it was unfortunate.”

“And I am sure,” Patty went on, “that if Perdita is good enough for Don Felipe to marry, she ought to be good enough for Tomás.”

“We won’t discuss that,” said Doña Martina. “I am sorry Tomás is still so unhappy. I have no doubt the poor boy is homesick, yet there is nothing to be done, I am afraid.” She was too tactful to suggest that they would probably recover from their present state of unhappiness, that they were both too young to mourn long, for she knew that Patty, at least, was still sore at heart. She looked tenderly at the girl, who sat there with listless hands in her lap. “Poor darling,” she thought, “I wish we could help her, but there is no healer except Time.” “Shall you go to Paulette’s wedding?” she asked presently.

Patty shook her head. “No, I shouldn’t enjoy it, and besides I want to be with you at Christmas. We haven’t had one together for two years.”

“We must try to make as happy a time of it as possible, then. Don’t look so hopeless, dear. You know that it isn’t impossible that we hear any day from Uncle Henry of someone’s whereabouts. He must write to his friends at Christmas time, so don’t be so downhearted.”

“South Africa seems out of the universe,” Patty made answer, “and then, too, there is Miss Moffatt; that is the worst part of it. If he turns to her there will be an end to it.”

“Yes, but we came to the conclusion that he must have been very decided about his intentions in that direction or else his grandfather would not have quarreled with him. We know they couldn’t be on good terms, else my letter would not have been returned in the way it was.”

“I have gone over all that times without number,” responded Patty wearily, “but just the same there is the chance of his making up with his grandfather on that very ground. That is the trouble and when we shall at last have heard it will be too late.”

There was nothing to say to this except, “But it may not be so. Let us look on the bright side and wait to see.”

“I am waiting. I have been waiting. It seems to me as if I must keep on waiting till I am old and worn out with it all,” returned Patty with a sudden burst of passion.

“You are too much alone,” her sister averred. “I quite agree with Juan that it would be best to winter in Paris. It may be a little more expensive, but I think it will be better for both of you. He is getting restless, and as for you, these lonely walks and rides are not the thing at all.”

“I’d really rather not go,” Patty rejoined. “I couldn’t take Guido nor the chapel, and they are such a comfort.”

Her sister shook her head. The girl must indeed be in a morbid state when these two things were all her solace, and she was more than ever decided that it would be best to make a change.

Therefore, to Paris they went, and if its gay scenes did not entirely satisfy Patty’s longings, they at least roused her to a more wholesome attitude of mind, so that the color came back to her cheeks and the shadows under her eyes lessened.

They stopped on their way at Poitiers in order to have a glimpse of Paulette, who, voluble and important, was absorbed in her coming wedding and displayed her trousseau with much satisfaction. She begged Patty to remain, but her refusal did not make for much disappointment, since Paulette’s own affairs were the main issue, and no one but her fiancé possessed powers to interfere with her content. He seemed a pleasant, commonplace person, distinctly bourgeois, but adoring his chic little betrothed, in whom he saw all the beauties and virtues of womanhood combined.

The finding of a proper apartment was at first a matter of interest, and Patty could but show some concern in this, then when it was finally decided upon, the getting settled and the becoming acquainted with the neighborhood served to take her thoughts from purely personal matters.

Perhaps the most interesting experience of the winter was the meeting of an English girl who knew the quiet Miss Moffatt, and who had met Robert Lisle. That there was no announced engagement, Patty learned to her satisfaction, that there ever would be was a matter of mere conjecture, for, said Alice Brainerd: “Beatrice has several admirers and you know it is ‘out of sight out of mind,’ more than once.” If this latter remark contained also a grain of discomfort, the other information overbalanced it, so that Patty was not quite so unhappy as she had been.

Once in a while came news from Kentucky, and sometimes there was a slight reference to Robert, but there was never any more said of his whereabouts, and Patty was as much in the dark as ever.

The English girl, Alice Brainerd, was a student at the art school where Doña Martina sometimes went to practise water-color, which she did rather well and of which she was very fond. She often brought Miss Brainerd home for a cup of afternoon tea and it was in this way that they all became good friends. Alice Brainerd came in one day with her sketch book, in which she had been making a pencil drawing at the afternoon sketch class.

Patty picked up the book and began looking it over. “Who is this?” she asked, pausing before the head of a meek looking girl with smooth hair and gentle eyes.

“Oh, that is Beatrice Moffatt. Didn’t I ever show it to you? It is not so very good, however.”

Patty studied the face long and earnestly. “She looks as if she were very good,” at last she said.

“She is good; very pious, you know, very gentle, yet she can be as obstinate as anybody. That meek sort of person often is. I don’t believe Bee has an enemy, yet she can be the most exasperating person I ever saw.”

“Yes?” Patty turned over the pages and suddenly the color rushed to her face. She closed the book hurriedly and went to the window. “Tea does make one so warm,” she presently remarked. Yet an irresistible force drew her back to the book. Now that she was forewarned she could continue her inspection, and she did so leisurely, beginning back of the page which had so stirred her emotions and inquiring who this or that one might be. “Who is this?” finally she asked after a seemingly indifferent glance at the drawing of a man in a Norfolk jacket with golf stick in hand.

“Oh, don’t you recognize that? It doesn’t speak very well for my powers of portraiture. That is Rob Lisle,” came the answer. “I did that the only time I ever met him. He came down to the Moffatts’ for the week’s end, and I was there at the time.”

“O, yes, I believe I do recognize it,” said Patty lightly, as she handed the book to her sister. “It isn’t bad, is it, Tina?”

Doña Martina took the book and gazed at the figure. Miss Brainerd had caught a characteristic pose and an expression as well. “It is really quite like,” she declared, then looking up she read an appealing look in Patty’s eyes, a look she could not stand. “Do you care for it, Miss Brainerd? I mean would you spare it? I’d really like to have a drawing of yours and you know we agreed to exchange sometime.”

“Fancy your liking it. I have later things that are much better,” returned Miss Brainerd.

“Well, you see it has the double advantage of being your work and of being the portrait of a friend, one might really say a connection. You may choose from any of these in exchange;” and she opened a portfolio of her own water-colors.

“I’m decidedly getting the best of the bargain,” maintained Miss Brainerd, turning over the sheets before her.

“If you feel that way about it, I surely don’t,” return Doña Martina lightly. “Then I may cut this out? Patty, there is a penknife on my desk yonder.”

Patty brought the knife, as she did so stooping to give her sister’s shoulder a loving pat. “Darling,” she whispered.

Doña Martina smiled a response. She knew what it would mean to the girl to possess the little sketch, and at the same time she could but regret a little her own impetuosity in securing it. However, she did not hesitate to hand the drawing to Patty after Miss Brainerd had gone and she received such thanks as robbed her of all regrets in the matter.

The little picture was a great comfort to its possessor. Somehow it seemed to bring Robert nearer to her; Africa did not appear such an unreal place with those eyes looking straight out at her below the level brows. Clear blue eyes they were, steadfast and honest. “I don’t believe it will be Miss Moffatt,” Patty soothed her fears by saying, “and if it is ever anyone else it will not be for some time.” So she took heart of grace and pinned the picture on her wall, where it performed the office of consoler during many days to come.

Of Perdita they never heard. Behind convent walls she was kept strictly and, as was expected, was allowed no intercourse with her friends. Paulette came up for her wedding trip, serene and triumphant in new clothes, and very self-satisfied with her big stupid husband, who could stand, smile, and admire, if he could do nothing else. The wedding being over the next matter of interest was the home, and of this Paulette chattered continually, till all were rather relieved when the two departed. There were a few days given to the sisters in the convent where Patty had spent her two years and where she as visitor was made much of by Sister Cecile and the rest. The peace of it all went to Patty’s heart, and she came back to alarm her sister by saying that she would like to be a nun, though credit must be given to Miss Brainerd’s sketch for quickly shattering that dream and after twenty-four hours no more was said of it.

So the winter days passed, not unpleasantly, and, at times, even gayly, while each day brought more buoyancy to the girl’s heart and newer hope to her future. Possibilities loomed up grandly at times, and imagination carried her across seas to a meeting which some day might take place.

## CHAPTER XIX

### DON FELIPE’S SURPRISE

Spring in Paris, flower-girls on the corners, trees bursting into leaf in the parks re-created that longing which comes to young hearts who suffer, and coming in one day with her hands full of spring blossoms, Patty said, “Aren’t we going back, Tina? Think how lovely it would be to see the apple-trees in bloom, to watch the spring green creeping over the mountains. If we can’t be in Kentucky, can’t we be in Asturias?”

“Juan was saying the same thing to-day. Do you really want to go? Doesn’t Paris satisfy you?”

“Oh, no, it never could. You know I came only under protest, although I have liked it, and I am sure it has been better for me to be here, but I want to see Guido and the pigeons and all the dear warm-hearted people, even Don Felipe I wouldn’t mind seeing, and I am sure there will be much to talk about when we have been taken to the palacio to see what has been going on in the way of alterations. I wish Tomás could be with us,” she added after a pause.

“Poor boy, no doubt he wishes so, too. Have you heard from him to-day, Patty?”

“Yes, and he says my Spanish is improving. It was a good suggestion of yours that we should correspond, for I am sure it has helped me with the language, besides giving me something to do. I shall be very glib this time. Tomás can write quite a respectable letter in English, and sometimes almost clever ones. I really look forward to getting them.”

Her sister smiled. Spring was returning and should not joy come to life? When Tomás came back who knew what might happen? Maybe they would all go out to Mexico before the two years were over, and propinquity was such a factor in matters of the heart.

“What are you looking so pleased about?” asked Patty.

“Was I looking pleased? I was thinking about the letter, about Tomás and his English, and of the two or three words which were all he knew when we first met. Well, dearie, I am sure Juan will be only too glad to get back to his native heath. He can work better there, he says, and I am sure this book of his ought to be finished before fall. It has been hanging fire too long, and I know he will not object to the quiet of the country.”

Patty went to her room and began cheerfully to gather up some of her belongings to take away with her. She even sang a little tune to herself, and was glad, glad to think of the long carretera, of the purple mountains and blue skies of Spain, even of the creaking cow-carts and the lusty calls of the vaqueros. It would be good to see little gray Guido and to hear his blatant braying, to see Manuela’s welcoming smile, and to receive Don Felipe’s stale compliments would not seem hard. She wondered if the drops of wax from the candle before St. Anthony still remained as they had fallen that day so long ago, and if the winter rains had found their way through the roof of the old chapel.

All these things were discovered to be quite as she had left them when, a week later, she arrived with her sister and brother. “In Spain, at least, one is spared many changes,” she remarked to her sister, as she leaned over the balcony and dropped crumbs to the pigeons. “There are a few more pigeons, and the vines have climbed a little higher. I suppose Don Felipe will not have changed a tooth, nor have altered a hair. He will be coming as soon as he knows we are here.”

But no Don Felipe ever came riding that way again, for the day after their arrival Don Juan appeared with a grave face. “I have heard sad reports of our friend, Don Felipe,” he informed his wife and sister. “He is seriously ill.”

“Oh, dear, I am so sorry.” Patty spoke with genuine concern. “I really looked forward to his coming to-day.”

“I fear he will never come again,” said Don Juan.

“Is it as bad as that?” questioned his wife.

“It is very serious. He is in a state of coma and has been for some hours.”

The next day the great palacio of Felipe Velasco had lost its owner. The work was left unfinished where the men had been busy restoring the old rooms. The stuffs of rose and gold and crimson lay untouched, for the flowers which had climbed to window and balcony peeped in to see a still form lying with candles at head and feet.

“And Perdita?” said Patty, looking at her sister, when Don Juan, who had brought the news, left them alone. “What of Perdita and Tomás?”

“We can’t face that yet, Patty, dear.” Her sister shook her head sadly.

“But couldn’t I write to Tomás. It takes so long for a letter to reach him.”

“Wait a little and we shall be able to decide. It is a hard problem, dear, and we cannot hurry with it. Juan is too troubled over this loss of his friend to discuss anything else at present.”

So Patty was obliged to give in, though she yearned to tell the news. She felt really sorry that the old don had gone from them. She would miss seeing his coach driving up the road; she would miss, too, the sound of his cackling laugh over some joke of hers or her brother’s. She wondered who would live in the big house. She understood there were no very near relatives and she supposed the place would be shut up or occupied by strangers. “Poor old Don Felipe,” she sighed, “after all he didn’t get the thing he expected; who does in this world?”

“Ave Maria,” said Manuela, who had come in, “but it will be a fine funeral.” She crossed herself devoutly. “God rest his soul, but he was a great man, little as he was in stature. Shall you go, señorita?”

“My brother and sister will, of course, and perhaps I may, too.”

“It will not pass here,” continued Manuela. “You have not heard, perhaps, who will take the oblada.”

“And what is that?” asked Patty curiously.

“Oh, surely you must know, señorita. It is the offering of meat and drink.”

“And what is done with it?”

“It is taken to the priest after the true funeral when the mass is said. Sometimes the branches are planted, but the corn never, for it would not grow.”

Patty looked inquiringly.

“You do not know what is in the macona, perhaps, señorita. Under the cloth are two bottles of wine and the corn; the branches are plain enough.”

Then Patty remembered to have seen in the funeral processions a woman walking directly behind the bier and carrying a macona, or round basket, covered with a white cloth. Always a green branch stood out each side of the basket, and the two hornlike protuberances under the cloth were the bottles of wine.

“There will be meat, too, no doubt, in the macona on the day of Don Felipe’s funeral,” went on Manuela.

“And the corn; you said it would not grow, Manuela. Why?”

The woman shook her head. “No one knows, señorita, but it is well known that the corn of an oblada never comes up if planted.”

The next day Patty had a chance to observe the oblada at the funeral of the old hidalgo, but it received little of her attention, for, to the surprise of all present, a young woman shrouded in black was the chief mourner. “It is Perdita,” whispered Patty to her sister. “I cannot be mistaken,” and her conjectures occupied more of her thoughts than the intoning of the priest. Had Don Felipe married the girl after all? He must have done so secretly and have then sent her back to the convent to complete her studies; there was no other explanation. It was well Patty had not written the letter to Tomás, as she had at first been eager to do, for she could not have given all the surprising news. Her thoughts ran on during all the rest of the service, and at last when she came away it was with a determination to hunt up Perdita the next day.

This she attempted to do, but no Perdita was at the little farmstead, neither was old Catalina there, and those who were either could not or would not tell of their whereabouts.

The following day, however, a servant came with a note, only a few lines for Patty. Could she come on a certain day and hour if she were sent for? The note was signed, “Perdita.” There was no hesitancy in Patty’s acceptance and she waited impatiently for the message. It came with the arrival from the palacio of Don Felipe’s coach, which had been sent for the Señorita Patty.

“Now we shall know all about it,” said Doña Martina with satisfaction, as she parted from her sister. “I shall be eager to hear what you have to tell, Patty, so don’t stay any longer than you can help.” Patty promised and drove away in state.

As she was taken up the long avenue her thoughts flew back to a year prior to this, when she had first entered the place and had been greeted so ceremoniously by its owner. What changes in a year. Now it was Perdita who stood at the head of the steps. Not the peasant girl, Perdita, but a tall queenly lady in deep mourning, who greeted her warmly, but with the manner of one who receives an equal.

Work on the various rooms had been arrested, but the restoration in most was carried so far as to give a different aspect to the place, a fact of which Patty was rather glad. Through a long suite of apartments Perdita led her friend. In one of the rooms was sitting old Catalina with still the peasant’s black handkerchief tied over her head. “Grandmother, this is the señorita Pattee, whom you will remember,” said Perdita.

Patty stopped for a moment to greet the old woman and then was ushered into the next room, the door was closed and she was alone with—Doña Perdita Velasco de Gonzalez, was it?

The room was one of the suite which Patty remembered Don Felipe had set aside for the use of “my young lady,” as he always said in referring to her, and was the one which Patty had suggested should be upholstered in rose-color. The walls and floors were finished, the former in French style with garlands of roses, the latter of polished wood was covered with Persian rugs in soft dull tints. The old furniture remained and the black rafters.

Perdita drew Patty to a seat by the window which overlooked stretches of mountain pasture. “Are you surprised to see me here?” she asked.

“Not altogether,” admitted Patty. “Not after seeing you at the funeral. Of course, Perdita, we were surprised then, for though we knew you would eventually be married we did not know that you were already Doña Perdita Velasco de Gonzalez.”

A mysterious smile came to Perdita’s lips. “I am not married,” she said, “but I am the señorita Perdita Velasco de Gonzalez.”

“What do you mean?” asked Patty, in bewilderment, differences of Spanish titles being as yet a little unfamiliar to her.

“I mean,” said Perdita, “that Don Felipe was my father.”

“Perdita!” Patty nearly jumped from her seat in surprise. “How long have you known this?”

“Only for a very few days. I was hurriedly sent for to return home. The sisters hastened me off, one of them came with me. I went to my grandmother who was much agitated. ‘Your father is very ill,’ she said. ‘You must remain here with me till we see what happens.’ The next day Don Felipe died. He was unconscious and I did not see him, for which I am very sorry. My grandmother then told me.”

“But she had said your father’s name was Pedro Ramon.”

“She was right; his name was Don Pedro Felipe Ramon Velasco. She was afraid he might not acknowledge me, but yesterday the lawyer opened the will and he has left nearly all he possessed to me, his daughter, Perdita. There are some bequests to the church and to one or two friends. I will tell you of these later; but I am his acknowledged daughter and heiress.” She threw up her head proudly, then her eyes softened and she stretched out her hands. “Tell me of Tomás, and will they object now?”

“Oh, Perdita, how could they? Oh, my dear, I am so glad for you, so very glad. And after all, Don Felipe was laughing in his sleeve while he prepared his surprise. He admitted it was you for whom he was getting his house ready, and he asked us to keep it a secret which of course we did. I remember now that he never referred to you as anything but ‘mia señorita.’ How clever he was to fool us all, poor old Don Felipe.”

Perdita sighed. “I am sorry he did not live long enough for me to give him a daughter’s affection, yet, my dear friend, I believe if it had not been for you I might never have come to this estate, for do you remember that time you dressed me up and he seemed so aghast at my appearance?”

“Indeed, I remember well, and we thought it an old man’s admiration for a beautiful girl.”

“It was more than that; it was because I appeared to him as a vision of my mother whom they say I am very like. He truly loved her and carried her miniature with him to the day of his death. I will show it to you and you can see my resemblance to her. Would you like to hear how he came to marry her?”

“I would indeed.”

“She was a peasant girl such as I was, and one day he came to my grandmother’s home, being belated by a storm and his horse having gone lame. They took him in and my mother served him with the best the house could afford. Don Felipe was even then an elderly man, fifty or more, but he was much overcome by my mother’s looks, her sweetness and modesty. He came again and again, always with some excuse. There was a young man who wished to marry my mother and when Don Felipe found this out he was wild with jealousy. No one had ever thwarted him and he was bound to possess a girl so lovely as my mother. He went to my grandmother and told her if she would consent to a secret marriage that he would take her and her daughter to Paris and marry my mother there; that he would always love her and be kind to her, but he could not bring himself to acknowledge her openly. If my grandmother swore never to disclose the secret while he lived he would see that she always had enough and to spare. It was not difficult to persuade my grandmother who saw comfort for the rest of her days and who could see only advantage in honorable marriage with so great a man, so she spoke to my mother, who it seems had no great fancy for anyone else, and who was really impressed by the favor of Don Felipe. So to Paris they went and were married. My grandmother went with them and after the ceremony was safely over she came back home telling her neighbors that my mother was married to one Pierre Raymond and was living in Paris, so no more was thought of it. My mother and father lived in Paris a year and my grandmother said it was Don Felipe’s pleasure to dress up his wife and admire her in her fine clothes, so that no wonder he was so overcome when he saw me. At the end of a year my mother died in giving birth to me. My father was wild with grief and refused to even look at me at first, and told my grandmother to take me away and never let him see me again, so she took me home with her and I was brought up as you know in the little pueblo on the mountain.”

“And he never saw you in all those years?”

“Not to know me. My grandmother grew very fond of me, and was afraid when I grew older that he might change his mind and take me from her, so she never let him know I was the daughter on the rare occasions when she did see him, but led him to believe I was at a convent school, for the expense of which he paid. The money he gave her for this she kept for my dowry, she says, for she feared he would leave all his wealth to the church and she thought it but right that I should have whatever she could save from what he allowed for my support.”

“What a romantic story,” Patty commented. “I never expected to meet a heroine who might have come out of a book. I do not see, however, why your father did not recognize you sooner.”

“He was very strong in his opinions, as you may remember, and as my grandmother tells me. He never tried to see me and never came near me in all those twenty years. My grandmother thinks he was afraid to become fond of me lest I, too, should be taken from him and so he resolved it would be better not to permit me to enter his life. Yet, after he did see me dressed like a lady it seemed to him, so he told my grandmother, as if my mother had come back and as if it were she whom he was neglecting. Then he resolved to recognize me openly. He was very angry when he found out that I had not been sent to the convent school where he supposed me to be all that time, and he charged my grandmother with having grossly deceived him by pretending it was a child of my mother’s brother who was living with her. He said it was a disgrace that she should have allowed his daughter to work in the fields and my grandmother told him it was no more of a disgrace than that he should have neglected me for twenty years; so they had it. And at last it was agreed that I should be sent to school and learn to do as a lady should, so that when he took me home to him I need not make him ashamed of me. Have I improved, Patty? I have tried hard.”

“Oh, Perdita, I think you were naturally a lady, for blood will tell, yet I can see that you are more at ease; you have more savoir faire, and you speak less like a child.”

“My father said in his will that, in case of his death, he wished the improvements to be carried on as he had planned and therefore they are to be continued. I am glad, so glad that you have come back, for I should be lonely in this great house. My old neighbors will be shy of me, but you have always, always been good to me and have made a comrade of me, so I have at least one friend of my own station. And Tomás, you have not told me of Tomás? Ah, Patty, for his sake I rejoice in all this.”

“He was well when we last heard, though poor lad, he has been very homesick. Have you never heard from him at all, Perdita?”

“No, señorita,” the girl for a moment lapsed into the old phrase; “I was not allowed to receive letters at the convent, you remember.”

“I do remember, for otherwise I should have written to you myself.”

“Do you think he will come back, Patty? Do you think he will be the same? that he will not let all this come between us? He was willing to take me to his heart when he believed me poor and beneath him, will he be too proud, now I am his equal?”

“Oh, Perdita, why should he when each has proved to the other the sincerity of the love you feel. Why do you not write to him yourself?”

“Señorita, I am afraid. I cannot tell you why, but I am. He may have changed and then how pitiful to have offered myself to one who does not care.”

“I don’t believe he has changed in the least and I shall write to him myself this very night.”

“That is as the good friend you have always been,” returned Perdita, gratefully.

“Have you ever thought of the gipsy’s prediction, Perdita?” Patty asked after a pause. “It has come true, or very nearly so, in your case. It is very strange, isn’t it? Quite uncanny, I think. How could she have known?”

“I asked the cura and he said it was not so strange or mysterious as many other things. She no doubt had noticed me in passing, and seeing me in your company, thought that either I was dressed below my station or was above it in reality. She, too, had probably seen me with Tomás at some time. They are very quick-witted, these gipsies, and she may have perceived that we were interested in one another, so it was easy to guess that I would rise above a peasant life. As to the death, that comes to all and it was no more than a chance hit. She looked so hard at me that I think she saw by my face when the prophecies came near the truth.”

“No doubt that would explain much of it. As for mine, well, I do not think there was much mystery there, for it was easy to see I was not a Spaniard and an Inglesa would have to cross water. As for the rest—well, life is not over.”

There was much more to talk about and the two girls spent hours together, so that when Patty did at last return home her sister had grown so impatient at the long absence she could scarcely restrain her curiosity till Patty was safely indoors.

However, when Patty had told her tale her sister exclaimed: “Well, I certainly don’t wonder that you didn’t come home sooner. With such a tale as that to gather up I can’t blame you. It is like a thunderbolt from a clear sky. What a surprise Don Felipe left us as a legacy. Juan will be dumb with amazement.”

“And Tomás?”

“Ah, and Tomás. There goes my beautiful castle for you two, my dear. Since he has done so well out there in Mexico, I did hope you might yet become fond of one another.”

“We are fond of one another, and if I am not to have your castle in Spain, Tomás will have a palacio which is quite as good to have in the family, for of course, now—”

“Oh, of course, now—” responded her sister.

## CHAPTER XX

### THE THREE WISHES

Patty’s letter to Tomás might as well have not been written, for, several days before its arrival at its destination, the young man was on his way home. Don Felipe was too important an individual in his community not to have much made of his death and of the romantic and sensational appearance of a hitherto unsuspected daughter, and because Tomás received a weekly sheet printed in Llanes he learned the surprising events before he was personally notified. There was beyond this, another reason for his sudden return as he was selected to go on a business trip to his own country in the interests of the firm by which he was employed. Heretofore he had not seemed eager to respond to the suggestion, but with the news of Don Felipe’s removal from his path he felt he would move heaven and earth in order to reach Perdita and at once made application with so much enthusiasm in the undertaking, that he was allowed to go at once to conduct the business which would take him back to Spain.

Meanwhile in the big palacio Perdita sat and waited. Patty, who was fast recovering her old spirits, spent much time with her, and her gay laughter often enlivened the great rooms. Doña Martina, too, went frequently. There had been a call of state when Don Juan and his wife formally accepted Perdita as their brother’s betrothed, and now there was nothing to do but to have patience. Don Felipe had added another surprise, to his first, in a legacy to Don Juan of all his fine old reliquaries and medals, and to Patty he left a case of antique jewelry “in gratitude for her friendship to my daughter”; to this was added the sum of one hundred pesetas for the purchase of a donkey, “when Guido shall no longer be of use.” So did Don Felipe have his little joke at the last and Patty could fancy the dry chuckle which might accompany the writing of this clause.

The day of San Juan came and went, but there were no flowery boughs set by Patty’s window this year, nor was much made of the day except by Don Juan’s patients who brought their offerings as before; among these was a handsome gift of silver from Perdita in “grateful memory of Don Juan’s many kindnesses to herself and her family.” It was Perdita’s first act as grand dame, and that she enjoyed it no one doubted. There was no fiesta this year, and the song of San Juan was not heard approaching nearer and nearer till it ended at the door.

June days had nearly come to a close when Patty one afternoon started up the road alone. She had seen Perdita the day before when they had discussed frescoes and upholstery. The workmen had returned and Perdita was busy giving orders and seeing to the carrying out of her father’s plans. She had developed a great deal of ability in the management of affairs and seemed much older. The nuns had not wasted their time, for in place of the childish peasant girl was a self-poised, efficient woman.

“I do miss the little peasant,” Patty said to herself, “yet I feel more as if I had a friend who stood on an equal footing. Tomás will find there is no condescension on his part.” She smiled. “I’d like to see the meeting.” She strolled slowly along the road. Here was the spot where she had seen the beggar beating his donkey. Poor old Don Felipe, how indignant she had been with him that day, and from the moment when Robert had come forward so generously she believed dated her warmer feeling for him. She drew a long sigh. “I suppose patience is an excellent virtue, but, oh dear, I wonder if it is doing any good to exercise it. Where is he? Where is he? Why doesn’t he come back? What should he come back for unless he knows, and how can he know? I suppose there are people who would defy fate and would do something to set the current moving. What could I do? Let me see. I could write to Alice Brainerd and tell her Perdita’s story, laying stress on the fact that she is to marry Tomás, and I could say that if she ever happened to meet Robert Lisle to tell him the tale because he would be interested, since he knew them both. I could do that without the least compromising myself. Then I could write to Aunt Mag, not to Uncle Henry, men never attach much importance to such things, but I could write to Aunt Mag and tell her the same thing. I think I will do it. He said he would some time go back to his old home and to his relatives in Kentucky. Oh, if we could only go, could only be there when he is. Maybe if I fixed my mind on it something will happen; it must, it must. I will make it happen, I will tell Tina I must go back to Kentucky, to Uncle Henry’s to stay till I can find out something. How can one care so much for a person whom one, after all, has known such a short time? But that is the way these things come; out of the sky, or they grow up over night.”

She wandered on up the little road to the solitary place where the Lady of Pity looked out from behind her iron grating upon green boughs and rippling stream. Within the shelter of the little porch Patty found the old stone seat where they two had sat that day when they had brought Guido to be blessed. A year? was it less than a year ago? Here they had seen Perdita on her knees. Well, unless fate now cruelly intervened Perdita would have her prayer granted. And the three wishes. The inxanos had kept fatally silent. “They evidently don’t understand English,” said Patty, with a sudden smile. “I believe I will go around by the sea caves,” she said, rising from the bench; “I told Tina I might. It will be lovely there to-day.”

She followed the paths across to the wooded way which led to the playa. “I seem to be making a sort of pilgrimage or romeria on my own account,” her thoughts followed the same subject. “Here is where I stumbled and he held my hand to steady me. Oh, ‘what fools we mortals be!’ Why didn’t I let him come home with me that night? Why was I so contrary? I think I was afraid of myself. I was scared at the thought of whither I was drifting. I was beginning to realize.” She crossed the wide stretch of pebbly shore and entered the cave where the wishes had been hidden. The place was well marked by a white seam in the rock. The surgings of many wintry seas had long since penetrated the crevices of the caves and she scarcely expected to find any vestige of the papers, but they had been carefully stowed away in a little hollow and upon lifting the rock under which they had been placed she found them, four bits of folded paper, damp from the brine, but still whole. The one on top she knew to be her own, for she remembered that she had laughingly said hers would be the first the inxanos would find. She took it up carefully and opened it, standing there lost in pity for the girl who had so cheaply thrown away the gifts which the genii had brought. “That very night, if I had stopped to consider, it might have come true, at least part of it. I believe I will put it back with his; I shall like to think of their being in company.”

She went toward the crevice, but just as she was about to tuck away her paper again there was a crunch of the pebbles, then a footstep suddenly arrested. She turned around.

“Glad Lady!”

The paper she held fluttered to the ground. The color went from the girl’s cheeks. She could not speak. The inxanos had been at work. Here was the gift.

The man took a step forward. “Glad Lady,” said Robert, a second time.

Her lips trembled. She was very near to tears in the sudden rush of joy, but she gathered strength to go forward. “I am a very glad lady,” she said, “glad to see you. How did you find me?”

“Your sister said you might be here.”

“And where did you come from, South Africa? We heard you had gone there.”

“No, I have come from South America. My plans were all made for South Africa, when they were suddenly changed and I went to South America instead. What were you doing here? Waiting for the inxanos?” There was an exultant vibrancy in his voice.

“‘GLAD LADY!’”

“Not exactly. I wanted to see if the wish papers were still there.”

“And were they?”

“Yes, a little the worse for dampness. There is mine.” She pointed to the paper lying at her feet.

He picked it up and unfolded it. “May I?” he asked with imploring eyes.

Patty nodded and stood with drooping head while he read:

“The three wishes of Patience Blake, surnamed Patty:

“1—She wishes for a true and loyal lover whom she can love with all her heart and soul.

“2—She wishes she could go back to her old Kentucky home to live.

“3—She wishes that Perdita’s prayer may be granted.”

Robert came nearer and laid the paper on a projecting ledge. “Glad Lady,” he said, “the first part of your first wish has come true; he is before you.”

There should be no defying of fate, no wasted moments this time, Patty quickly determined. She held out her hands: “And the second part has come true, too,” she answered.

He clasped her hands and held them close against his breast as if he would never let them go, and they stood there looking into one another’s eyes till they were brought back to a consciousness of where they were by a laughing voice saying: “Shocking! Awful badth form!” and looking up they beheld Tomás at the entrance of the cave.

“Tomás! Tomás!” Patty sprang forward to meet him. “When did you come? What a surprise! and are you two together?” She looked at Robert. “Oh, how good this is.”

“Yes, as chance would have it we crossed on the same steamer,” Robert told her, “and instead of going to England I came to Spain.”

“And have you seen Perdita?” Patty turned to Tomás.

A little cloud of disappointment came over the young man’s face. “Not yet,” he acknowledged. “She has gone to Llanes and will not return till evening, I discovered. Martina thought we might find you here so Don Roberto searched the caves while I climbed around outside.”

“It does me good to see you again. Ah, Tomás, there will be no returning for you now, I think.”

“I do not know; I am no match for the wealthy daughter of Don Felipe,” he answered modestly.

“Oh, but wealth is nothing; it should never come in the way of happiness, and true love should not stand at so poor a thing as money.”

Robert’s hand stole out and found hers to give it a tender clasp, and in the semi-darkness of the cave with no one but Tomás to see, she did not in the least mind. Good Tomás, however, appreciated the fact that this was a time when he might well be absent and making the excuse that he had not yet seen his brother, he left them to come home alone.

“And were you really on your way to England?” Patty asked her lover.

“Yes, beloved.”

“And would you have made up with your grandfather and have married Miss Moffatt?”

For an answer he caught her in his arms and kissed her lips, her eyes, her hair. “Don’t, don’t,” he cried. “When I think that it might have been so, that I might have lost you by so slight a chance I am nearly mad.”

Patty gave a long sigh and nestled closer. “But you haven’t lost me and I haven’t lost you. Isn’t it wonderful? Were you unhappy? Tell me.”

“Heaven knows there was never one more wretched than I who cursed the day I landed in Spain, and when I shook its dust from my feet I said I would never touch its shores again.”

“And was it Tomás who urged you to come back?”

“It was he who gave me hope. I told him I had heard he was open to congratulations and he thought I meant Perdita, so he told me the whole story, then I knew that neither he nor Don Felipe stood in my path and I thought maybe there would be a chance to win you if I came back.”

Patty drew herself away. “And I flew right to you. I didn’t give you a chance to try. But I, too, have been so unhappy. Oh, why did you go right off that day? Oh, you don’t know how unhappy I was when I knew you had gone.”

He gathered her to him again. “Darling girl, to think you should have been made unhappy is the worst part of it, but your dear sister in all innocence gave me to believe that all was settled between you and Tomás, and my own doubts and fears helped the conclusion. You were so ready to make excuses not to see me that morning, so chary of letting me believe that I had the least place in your regard that I could only determine to find out from your sister what I could, and if the fates were against me to go, and go quickly.”

“And was it Tomás who told you how it was Tina thought as she did? I was a silly little goose to tease her so, and to behave like such a witch of contrariness. Yet,” she said, after a pause, “I think it has done me good; I don’t believe I am quite such a harum-scarum as I was. What did Tina say when she saw you?”

“She welcomed me right royally, and as if to make amends for having so misled me she did insinuate that she thought you would be very glad to see me if I were to hunt you up. Were you glad?”

“Did I look particularly annoyed? I was the gladdest of glad ladies ever was. But you are becoming entirely too inquisitive. We must go back and tell Tina that the first wish has come true. But first you must show me your wishes.”

A second piece of paper was drawn from the hollow and handed over for Patty’s scrutiny. It read thus:

“I, Robert Lisle, ask that the kind inxanos grant me:

“1—The love of Patience Blake;

“2—A return to the land we both love;

“3—Such success as may make me able to give ease, comfort, and happiness to said Patience Blake when she shall be my wife.”

“Shall we put them back?” Patty asked, as with tender eyes she looked up from the reading.

“I should like you to give me yours.”

“And I am simply crazy to keep yours.”

“Then why not?”

“Why not indeed? Abracadabra! Appear, inxanos! Whether visible or invisible to us, accept our thanks, and we’ll keep the papers, please. Do you hear any underground murmurs or see a cloud of smoke?” She turned to Robert.

“No, but no doubt they heard.”

“Then we’ll go.”

Back through the leafy road they walked, and if they stopped at certain well-remembered points who can blame them? At the gate they parted, Robert promising to return later when he had seen his luggage safely carried to the fonda.

Patty with dancing step ran upstairs to her sister. “And what will you give me for my news?” she asked.

Doña Martina smiled. “Your news is written on your face, my dear,” she replied. “There is no need to tell it. And are you happy, little sister?”

Patty knelt down and put her arms around the other’s waist, looking up into her face with eyes all alight. “I am just as happy as I was miserable. I am so happy I am almost frightened.”

“And what will you give for my news?” asked Doña Martina, looking down and smoothing away the dark locks with a gentle finger.

“Have you news, too?”

“Yes, and I think you will be happier still when you know it, or I am much mistaken.”

“Then tell it to me quick, although I am not sure that I shall not fly out the window if more joy comes.”

“What would you say if I were to tell you that Juan had accepted the offer to enter into partnership with a medical friend of his, an elderly man who will soon wish to retire and wants a younger man to help him now with his practice, and that the city where he lives is Cincinnati?”

“Oh, Tina, so near our own Kentucky. Why, it is almost like being in the same state. You could really live in Kentucky if you wanted, I suppose.”

“No, we must live in Cincinnati, for Dr. Vargas wishes us to take up our home in his house. He is a widower who has no family, and it seems as if it might be the best thing to do. He was a friend of Juan’s father and has always taken an interest in him.”

“It sounds very promising. I am glad for Juan, and for you, too, dear.”

“I hope we shall not be far apart, though I don’t know what your Robert’s plans are.”

“My Robert! Oh, Tina, how wonderful that you can say that truly. I don’t know anything but that he is my Robert.”

Her sister laughed. “You impractical children! And you have no idea whether he wishes to carry you off to the wilds of South Africa or to the frozen regions of Siberia, I suppose; it would be all the same to you.”

“Weren’t you just that way yourself, once upon a time?”

“Oh, yes, my dear, I admit it, and I acknowledge that even now that I am a prosy old married woman I would follow my leader to the ends of the earth.”

“Then don’t say a word about my being impractical. You can go and ask Robert anything you choose and be perfectly sure that wherever he goes it will be home to me.”

Her sister shook her head. “I never expected you to go to such lengths, yet I might have known. Well, my blessed child, I will satisfy my sisterly curiosity on the subject, hoping he will not take you utterly beyond my reach.”

Tomás did not appear till the next day, though Patty heard him stealing up the stairs after she had gone to her own room, too happy to waste the blissful hours in sleep. It was a radiant face which met hers when she looked over her balcony after having taken her morning coffee. “Well, Tomás,” she said banteringly, “why do you look so woebegone? I never saw such a dismal countenance. I will come down and cheer you up, for I am sure you need it.”

Tomás laughed. “You look a gladth ladthy yourself,” he said, waving his hand. “Come down, come down and let us dance and sing together.”

She ran down to the garden and held out her hand to him. “Good morning, Tomás, it does seem like old times to see you here. I am so glad to have you back again, and how is Perdita?”

“Well, so well, but not the leetle childth I left. Is she not wondtherful as a grand ladthy?”

“She truly is. And are you disappointed to find her so?”

“No, for the heart has not changed, the fine golden heart of her, it is the same.”

“And you are not thinking of leaving her again, I hope. Let us go to the summer-house and have one of our old talks, but oh, what a happy talk it will be, Tomás, not like those last sorry ones.”

The birds were twittering as of old in the branches above the arbor, and the pigeons still sought it in search of chance crumbs, when the two took their old places. “No, I shall not return,” said Tomás. “Perdita will need me, she says, to help her look after these estates of hers, and she say, why not I as well as a stranger? She tell me she need me more as before.”

“I think she does, and I am very glad you are to stay.”

“I am first to complete the business for which I am leaving Mexico, and when is complete I am say the gentlemans then, I resign myself the position you so kindly make to me, for I wish not again leave my country. I am remain here with my wife eternally. Then I am no longer torturated with the illness of home. I am happy with my Perdita, my mountains, my sea.”

“And when will you marry?”

“As soon as is respectable after the losings of the father of Perdita. She wish not I leave her to trouble of lawyer and paper.”

“And so the palacio will be ready for a bride after all, but how glad I am, Tomás, that it will be your bride and not Don Felipe’s.”

“It is because of our friend Pattee that all is. We have say many time how we bless you as one who is angel.”

“Glad Lady! Glad Lady,” a voice interrupted them. “Oh, here you are in the old place. Don’t leave us, Tomás. I will have a cigarette with you. Good morning, you two, and what are you plotting now? I suppose I may conjecture that the talk has been on the same old subject,” said Robert, sitting down by Patty’s side.

“The subject is the same, but you should see Tomás’s fiancée now; she is more beautiful than ever,” Patty told him.

“I shall see her soon I hope. Well, little girl, I have been under a fire of questions from Doña Martina. Must you go, Tomás, to the palacio? Ah, well, we will not keep you. Vaya V. con Dios.” He laid his hand over Patty’s and looked down at her with a proud expression. “Beloved,” he said, “your sister tells me I should let you know my plans, that it is all very well to live in the clouds sometimes, but one must descend once in a while, and so I am sure you will be glad to know how I am going back to Kentucky with you all.”

“Oh, Robert, to live always?”

“Always, I hope. Those mines in the West will call me away for a time but I think I shall do well to settle in the States and there is no reason why we shouldn’t make Kentucky our home, even if we must go away from it sometimes.”

“Ah, if it could be the dear home I left.”

“Why not?”

“Could it be? Half is mine, of course.”

“And the other half can be mine, I hope, for your sister and brother and I have been talking hard, straight business, and that is how we settled it, if the plan meets your approval.”

“Bless the inxanos!” Patty cried. “They have granted all our wishes.”

He drew her close to him. Before their eyes arose the vision of an old garden, green with box hedges and rose sweet, along its borders they two should walk till the setting of life’s sun.

THE END

#### Transcriber’s Note:

Words and phrases in italics are surrounded by underscores, _like this_. Nine misspelled words were corrected. ‘I know’ was added to the phrase “... all I know is you won’t have to live...” Unprinted punctuation at ends of sentences and missing diacriticals were added. Two excess commas and one duplicated word were deleted.