his mother's upright rectitude of nature. The Iberian
strain had passed her absolutely by. She was a northern rose
in a tropical garden. As he drew near to his own gates, he
involuntarily quickened his steps. He knew that Antonia would
be waiting. He could see among the thick flowering shrubs her
tall slim figure clothed in white. As she came swiftly down
the dim aisles to meet him, he felt a sentiment of worship for
her. She concentrated in herself his memory of home, mother,
and country. She embodied, in the perfectness of their mental
companionship, that rarest and sweetest of ties--a beloved
child, who is also a wise friend and a sympathetic comrade.
As he entered the garden she slipped her hand into his. He
clasped it tightly. His smile answered her smile. There was
no need for any words of salutation.

The full moon had risen. The white house stood clearly out in
its radiance. The lattices were wide open and the parlor
lighted. They walked slowly towards it, between hedges of
white camelias and scarlet japonicas. Vanilla, patchuli,
verbena, wild wandering honeysuckle--a hundred other scents--
perfumed the light, warm air. As they came near the house
there was a sound of music, soft and tinkling, with a
rhythmic accent as pulsating as a beating heart.

"It is Don Luis, father."

"Ah! He plays well--and he looks well."

They had advanced to where Don Luis was distinctly visible.
He was within the room, but leaning against the open door,