“My mother was a Spanish lady of high descent; her name, Inez de Borga, but while she was young her father, one of the proudest grandees in Spain, lost the whole of his fortune and died of despair. My mother was left alone in the world, and she married an Englishman, Captain Lancelot Payton, who held some English appointment in Granada. They were very happy; my mother was most lovely, most lovable, and my father the very soul of honor; but a cruel fever came and took him from us. I was very young, only a child, but I remember him well. He died and left my mother a small annuity, which was to cease with her life. So we lived alone in a pretty little Moorish villa, near Granada. Never were mother and daughter so happy--she was like my elder sister. She taught me our own grand, musical tongue; she taught me my father’s language, pure Saxon-English; she taught me French and Italian. She was never so happy as when sharing the stores of her rich fancy and genius with me. She made me an excellent musician and a good linguist; but that was not all. She taught me--now, mind, I swear to you, this is true--she taught me to fear God, to love Him, to value my own soul. She taught me that purity was the highest and noblest attribute of woman; that honor far outshone nobility; she taught me that I was only to live for heaven; that the things of this world faded so quickly away, but that those who lived for God lived for the highest end of all.” Her face flushed, a beautiful, tender light came into her eyes.