assing
gravity. "I wonder what he will be like. Will his hair be gray? Not that
I dislike gray hair you know," she added hurriedly. "I hope he will be
nice. One of the girls told me the other day that she disliked her
father, which seems odd, doesn't it? Milagros de Villanueva--do you know
her? She was my friend once. We told each other everything. She has red
hair. I thought it was golden when she was my friend. But one can see
with half an eye that it is red."

Sarrion laughed rather shortly.

"Have you heard from your father?" he asked.

"I had a letter on Saint Mark's Day," she answered. "I have not heard
from him since. He said he hoped to give me a surprise, he trusted a
pleasant one, during the summer. What did he mean? Do you know?"

"No," answered Sarrion, thoughtfully. "I know nothing."

"And Marcos is not with you?" the girl went on gaily. "He would not dare
to come within the walls. He is afraid of all nuns. I know he is, though
he denies it. Some day, in the holidays, I shall dress as a nun, and you
will see. It will frighten him out of his wits."

"Yes," said Sarrion looking at her, "I expect it would. Tell me," he went
on after a pause, "Do you know this stick?"

And he held out, under the rays of the lamp, the sword-stick he had
picked up in the Calle San Gregorio.

She looked at it and then at him with startled eyes.

"Of course," she said. "It is the sword-stick I sent papa for the New
Year. You ordered it yourself from Toledo. See, here is the crest. Where
did you get it? Do not mystify me. Tell me quickly--is he here? Has he
come home?"

In her eagerness she laid her hands on his dusty riding coat and looked
up into his face.

"No, my child, no," answered Sarrion, stroking her hair, with a
tenderness unusual enough to be remembered afterwards. "I think not. The
stick must have been stolen from him and found its way back to Saragossa
in the hand of the thief. I picked it up in the street yesterday. It is a
coincidence, that is all. I will write to your father and tell him of
it."

Sarrion turned away, so that the shade of the lamp threw his face into
darkness. He was afraid of those quick, bright eyes--almost afraid that
she should divine that he had already telegraphed to Cuba.

"I only came to ask you whether you had heard from your father and to
hear that you were well. And now I must go."

She stood looking at him, thoughtfully pulling at the delicate embroidery
of her sleeves, f