The lingerer at the gate drew a long breath and entered the garden. In spite of himself, his steps turned toward an open place among the orange trees, the place where his wife’s bed had stood, but there was no bed there now, only an old, old man, seated on the ground and idly piling up the fallen fruit into a golden pyramid. As he went on with his building, he was crooning over and over: “Many laughing ladies In a castle green; All are dressed in yellow And fit to serve the Queen.” The new-comer, for all his self-control, gave a start of painful surprise. “Is that your grandfather?” he asked Rodrigo. “Ay, sir, to be sure it is, and a grandfather as good as bread,” answered the lad, with a sensitive flush, while, stooping quickly, he fairly lifted the light, swaying figure to its feet. “Never mind the oranges now, Grandfather,” he said brightly. “See! We have an honored guest.” The old man turned a dazed look upon his son-in-law. “I am at your feet, sir,” he quavered, in the courteous phrase of Andalusia. “The house is yours.” “But surely you know me,--Catalina’s husband,” pleaded the stranger, opening his arms. The old man nodded many times, but drew back from the embrace. “You are the young man from Saragossa who would wed my daughter Catalina,” he answered slowly. “She is away just now--I forget where--but when she comes home again, we will talk of these things.” Then, moving his fingers as if he were touching the strings of a guitar, he began to sing softly: “Going and coming, I lost my heart one day. Love came to me laughing; In tears Love went away.” “How long has he been like this?” asked the officer, turning sharply on Rodrigo. “And why have you told me nothing of it?” “Your pardon, sir,” pleaded the lad, “but what was there to tell? Grandfather is often confused by evening, when he is tired. He will be quite clear-headed again in the morning. Perhaps he is not so active as he was, but he does a little work about the garden and he will amuse the children hour after hour with his stories and riddles and scraps of song. He loves Pilarica better than his eyelashes.” “Where is Pilarica?” asked the father. “Where is Pilarica?” echoed the old man, speaking more alertly than before. “I have played the airs that please her best, and there were no dancing feet.” “She may be helping Tia Marta with the supper,” suggested Rodrigo, turning toward the house. “And there goes Tia Marta now. Oho! Tia Marta! Tia Marta!”