century restriction within high ramparts. It has its cathedral, its
court-house--all the orthodox requirements of a city, and, moreover,
it is the capital of the whilom kingdom of Majorca. King Jaime is
dead and gone. Majorca, after many vicissitudes, has settled down
into an obscure possession of Spain; and to the old-world ways of
that country it has taken very kindly.

But with the unwritten history of Majorca we have little to do, and
we have much with the Casa d'Erraha and the owner thereof--a plain
Englishman of the name of Challoner--the last of his line, the third
of his race, to own the Casa d'Erraha.

Edward Challoner lay on his bed in the large room overlooking the
valley and the distant sea. In the House of Repose he lay awaiting
the call to a longer rest than earthly weariness can secure. The
grave old Padre of the neighbouring village of St. Pablo stood near
the bed. Eve Challoner had sent for him, with the instinct that
makes us wish to be seen off on a long journey by a good man, of
whatsoever creed or calling.

At times the old priest gently patted the hand of Eve Challoner as
she stood by his side.

Climate and country and habit have a greater influence over the
human frame than we ever realise. Eve Challoner had been subject to
these subtle influences to a rare extent. Tall and upright, clad in
black, as all Spanish ladies are, she was English and yet Spanish.
Of a clear white, her skin was touched slightly by the sun and the
warm air which blows ever from the sea, blow which way it may across
the little island.