,
and night-cap on her head, stood regarding him with an air of evident
disfavor, for presently she cried in a shrill, toothless voice, "Get
thee gone, thou beggar, I have naught for thee." "By my soul, good
mother," answered the man, laughing heartily, "thy welcome doth match
the morning air in warmth. Dost not know thy son Guy?"

"By the blessed Virgin!" exclaimed she, in half-frightened tones,
evidently engendered by a most wholesome respect for her son, "wait
but a trice until the door be unbarred." Saying which, she hastily
withdrew her head and closed the window. Immediately after, the shrill
tones of her voice were heard within the house, crying: "Mistress
Elinor! Mistress Elinor! hurry down and let thy sire in, for he stands
without!" A moment of silence, followed by the drawing of bolts, and
suddenly the door was thrown open, disclosing the figure of a girl,
who, with outstretched arms, exclaimed: "My father!"

Standing bathed in the rosy light of coming day, she was in high
contrast to the rough, weather-beaten man, who quickly clasped her to
his breast. The pale and lightly tinted olive complexion, which showed
descent from some far-off Castilian ancestor, harmonized well with the
dainty but clear cut features. A shapely head, surrounded by a wealth
of dark and glossy hair, carried downward from the temples and
gathered into a knot behind, so as to completely cover the fragile
ears, formed a fitting frame for eyes of the darkest violet, which, as
they gazed up into his, showed the fondest love. A soft gray gown,
half closed at the throat and fastened about the waist by a silver
girdle, completed the attire of a slender but perfect figure, thrown
into bold outline by her attitude.

"Forsooth," exclaimed Fawkes, as soon as he could speak for her
caresses, "methinks thou at least art glad to see thy old father once
again." Then, as he held her at arm's length, that he might better
gaze upon the face, "indeed, thou art changed; 'tis the promise of the
bud fulfilled in the blossoming flower. But let us in, for the cold
air ill becomes me after the warming sun of Spain, and frost but
roughly handles such tender plants as thou art."

"Nay, nay!" exclaimed she, closing the door and throwing her arms
about him, "thy tender plant is naught but a sprig of hardy ivy, which
hath needed these many months the sturdy oak on which to cling." Then,
with a little shiver, and a laugh, as her warm body rested against the
col