her forehead, which was like black floss silk; and whatsoever she
sang, however passionate and tender the wild little song, however
passionate and tender her voice, her young eyes had mockery in
them--mocked at the words, the tenderness of her own voice, and at those
who were moved by it; and most of all Sebastiano knew that she mocked at
himself.

But he could not go away. Some strange thing had happened to him, it
seemed; it was as if a spell had fallen upon him.

Better to be mocked than to go away. He stayed so late that Jovita
fell asleep and nodded under the shadow of the grape-vines. And at last
Pepita put down her guitar and rose. She stood upright in the moonlight,
and extended her pretty arms and stretched them, laughing.

"Good-night," she said. "Jovita will amuse you. Already there have been
too many hours in this day."

She ran into the house with no other adieu than a wave of her hand, and
the next minute they could hear her singing in her room, and knew she
was going to bed.

Sebastiano rose slowly.

"Good-night," he said to Jose.

Manuel and Carlos said good-night also, and went out together, walking
side by side down the white moonlit road; but Sebas-tiano moved away
from the shadowing vines with a lingering step, and Jose went with him
a short distance. Something in his hero's air of gravity and abstraction
somewhat overawed him.

"She has not been entertained," said Sebastiano at last.

"Yes, yes," said Jose. "She has had pleasure all the day. And she is
fond of pleasure."

"She said there had been too many hours in the day."

Jose rubbed his head a little reflectively for a moment, and then his
countenance somewhat brightened.

"She wished to lie a little for amusement," he said, affectionately.
"There is no wrong in her--Pepita--but sometimes, to be amused, she will
tell a little lie without sin in it, because she knows we understand
her. She does not expect us to believe. We who are used to her know her
better. You will also understand in time."

"Then I may come again?" asked Sebas-tiano.

The heavy body of Jose almost trembled with simple pleasure.

"It is all yours, senor," he said, with a gesture including the little
house and all the grape-vines and orange blossoms and oleanders. "It is
poor and small, but it is yours--and we--"

Sebastiano's dark eyes rested for an instant on a little window under
the eaves where a jasmine vine wreathed a thick tangle of green, starred
w