The Spaniard strode from the room, and the weeping lady sought, with a heavy heart, her own turret. It was the first time her father had been unkind to her, and she threw herself down, on a low couch, in all that utter hopelessness of grief youth alone can feel. It was her first sorrow. There came a soft rap at the door,—but she heeded it not;—and not until a hand, soft as woman’s, held her own,—and a voice, whose deep, low tones were breathing music, whispered in her ear, did she know her father’s handsome page was kneeling by her. “Weep not, mi cara Ysabel,” soothingly said he, “or rather let me share thy grief. I know it all—thy father hath told me, and sent me here to bring thee to reason, as he said. Can I do it sweet lady?” and the handsome page smiled. It was wicked in him to smile when her heart was so full of grief—and so the lady thought. But she had learned to love, and when love is warm and new, all the loved one says or does is more than right. “Love flings a halo round the dear one’s head, Faultless, immortal”—— The Doña Ysabel loved her father’s page,—loved him as an ardent-souled daughter of sunny Spain knows how to love. The father!——he did not even dream of such wickedness. (If he had he could not have slept for at least six months)—the unpardonable wickedness of a daughter of his—his bright, beautiful Ysabel—the high born lady of Llenaro,—loving her father’s page!—a nameless page!—and so he slept secure. The thought was too preposterous. And the Doña Ysabel loved. Love is all trustfulness, all watchfulness, all hopefulness. The page was handsome; the page was graceful, witty, accomplished. He was indeed an uncommon page;—and so thought the Doña’s father,—and _so_ thought her father’s daughter. He could sing to the music of Ysabel’s guitar, most divinely; he could dance, fence, was perfectly skilled in all horsemanship, moreover he was acquainted with all the then lore of bright Spain. He wrote poetry too; and sang the words of his own composing. In sooth he was a most marvellous page—a perfect paragon of a page; and then his eye—why it was wilder than lightning shot from a midnight sky. The servants all feared and hated him. To Ysabel alone was he all that was gentle,—and to her father, for her sake. He was her teacher; her patient, faithful, untiring teacher. They drank together at the pure well of learning—a well too often untasted in those days of fair Spain. “Weep not, sweetest; thy noble father would see thee wed with the Marquis of Talavera, and thou canst not love him. And it is for that thou weepest. Is it not so sweet lady?” “I was happy,” replied the sorrowing girl. “I did not dream of love, or that I had a heart. I only felt that I was happy. And now—” “And now, my gentle Ysabel?” “And now,” said the Señorita, deeply blushing, “now I feel I have no heart to give.”