y. He smiled approvingly into Tiny's pretty face.
"But I say true, and the young mens do not sometimes. It make me young
again to see you here."

"One would think you were _old_," said Tiny. "But do you _really_ like
to see us here? Should you mind if we came sometimes in the evening? It
would be such _fun_ to meet at each other's houses and talk on the
verandahs."

"Come all the evenings," said Don Roberto, promptly, "si you talk to me
sometimes."

"_I_ want to do that. Ila plays, and Rose sings _beau_tifully. Some
evening we will get up charades--to amuse you."

"On Saturday, Sunday, Tuesday, and Thursday nights I am here."

"Those will be our evenings to come here." She gave a peremptory glance
to Rose, who responded hurriedly, "Are you fond of music, Don Roberto?
It will give me great pleasure to sing for you; and Ila has been
learning some of my accompaniments."

Don Roberto did not answer for a moment. His memory had played him a
trick: it had leaped back to the days of guitars and gratings. He rarely
sought the society of gentlewomen, not, at least, of those whose names
were on visiting lists. There was something unexpectedly sweet and
fragrant in the company of these three beautiful girls. Don Roberto's
memories were hanging in a dusty cupboard, and his heart had shrunken
like the meat of a nut too long neglected; but there was life at the
core, and the memories came forth, wanting only a breath to dust them.
Yes, he should like to have these girls about him. And Magdalena had
lived the life of a hermit. It was time for her to enjoy her girlhood.

"Yes," he said, "alway I like the music. Si the piano need tune, I send
one man down. You can dance, too, si you like it. Always I like see the
young peoples dance."

Tiny clapped her hands. Ila leaned forward and patted his hand.

"What an inspiration!" she exclaimed. "This will be a simply gorgeous
house to dance in. Don Roberto, you certainly are an angel!"

Don Roberto had never been called an angel before, but he smiled
approvingly. "Some night this week we have the dance," he said. "My wife
write you to-night."

"I am on the verge of nervous prostration," whispered Rose, as his
attention was claimed by Mrs. Cartright. "The effort of keeping my
countenance--but the way you handle a trowel, Tiny, is a new chapter in
diplomacy. Butter and molasses for fifty and after; a vaporiser and
_peau d'espagne_ for the sharp young things. I was just saying," she