“I want you,” she said, laying her hand on the little spinster’s arm. “I want you to come and sit with me, while I tell Mr. Eyrle my story.” The kindly eyes filled at once with tears. “Oh, my dear, are you going to tell him? I am so glad, so pleased.” “I must tell him in self-defense, for I find Sir Alfred’s spies are here.” Miss Hanson clasped her hands with a little gesture of dismay. “He might have left you in peace. He can have nothing to complain of. No life could be more quiet.” “No,” she replied, with a little smile, “that is true. But do you not understand? He has not ruined me in the eyes of the whole world. There are many who believe in my innocence, as there are thousands who believe in my guilt. If anything else could be proved against me, his case would be clear. I had forgotten that, and have allowed Mr. Eyrle to come here. My penance must be telling him the history I fain would have kept from him. Come with me, so if prying eyes watch our last interview there may be nothing to relate.” “It shall not be our last interview,” said Kenelm, hotly. “It must,” she replied, with a smile. “Mr. Eyrle, if you were a wise man, you would fly from me, a woman whose name has been so lightly on every foul lip in the land.” “I believe in you,” he cried, passionately. “I thank you,” she said, with dignity. “I thank God also that one loyal English gentleman has been found to stand by me in the hour of need,” and then she led the way to the balcony, Kenelm and Miss Hanson following her. She sat down on the pretty, quaint seat, Kenelm by her side. Miss Hanson stood leaning against the iron rail of the balcony. There was a faint sound as of summer leaves and summer music in the air, but when she, in her clear, sweet voice, with its soft, piquant accent, began her story, they heard nothing else. They saw nothing else but the beautiful Spanish face, the indignation that flashed from the dark eyes, the sorrow that quivered round the red lips. She turned her face to Kenelm; it was to him she spoke. “I must tell you something of my early home,” she said, “of my beautiful Spain, where chivalry lives and where men have not forgotten how to love and reverence woman; Spain, where the light lies low on the hills; the home of romance, the very name of which stirs my heart, as the sound of the trumpet moves the warrior’s soul. I was born near Granada. As I say the word, there comes to me a vision of pomegranates and myrtle, of vine-crowned steeples, of splendor such as you cold Northerners never dreamed of--great flashes of color, royal sunsets, glorious music--all echoes of Spain the magnificent.