oat
tore away. There was a flash of steel in the hand of the Spaniard--but
the blow never fell. The girl stood between them, her arms spread
apart, her eyes flashing.

"Carlos," she said slowly, "if you ever strike a blow like that, be
eternally cursed by me. You fool! Know you not that I was playing with
you? How I hate you! Go!" She stamped her foot. "Go, I say."

He turned with bent head, and without a word passed into the building.
As he disappeared, the girl sank back, her face white, almost greyish,
against the red of her dress.

"Hold me, _senor_," she said weakly. "I am not well. Could--would you
take me home--to my father?"

Without a word Henderson picked her up bodily and stepped off the
little low balcony into the grass. Not until they reached the arbor
did she speak.

"Thank you. I think I can walk now."

He set her down and she smoothed her rumpled skirts. Then they
proceeded together slowly. Silently they followed the path which a few
hours before they had so gaily trod, and silently they ascended the
hill.

The old man and I had not yet gone to bed when they entered the house.
She came in laughing.

"Is it not early, my angel?" he asked. "It is but little past
midnight." She smiled.

"Yes, _padre_, it is early--but I--I thought I would return."

Late that night, as Henderson and I lay in bed--he telling me the
story of the evening--we could hear the girl in the next room,
sobbing, sobbing as if her heart would break. It made Henderson
uneasy.

"I'd like to do something," he said. "The scoundrel! He ought to be
whipped."

I grunted and tried to get to sleep, but it was useless. Fred was
tossing restlessly, and the girl in the other room was still sobbing,
sobbing. Suddenly there sounded a whistle, low but clear. The sobbing
ceased. The whistle sounded again. We heard a quiet step and the noise
of an opening window.

"_O Carlos mio_," she breathed in the mother tongue, "I knew you would
come."

"Adela _mia_," he called softly, "my angel, I hoped you would be here
and--and you are."

"You have been so long," she sighed.

"Henderson," I said, "if you have any decency, go to sleep."

We rolled over and closed our eyes, while unknown to us the breeze
wafted up the heavy night odor of the roses and the yellow moon slowly
moved toward the western heavens.

_Literary Monthly_, 1906.

THE AWAKENING

WILLARD ANSLEY GIBSON '08

When March has tuned his willow pipes,
The