As Mariposilla paused in her playing, all applauded with the exception of Miss Walton. From the first, she had appeared annoyed by the dramatic conditions of the afternoon. As our hostess, she was oppressed with suppression. I could see that the literal young woman, viewing all things from a narrow and conventional standpoint, longed to escape from the theatrical atmosphere which Mrs. Sanderson had so unexpectedly created. I myself may have doubted the propriety of Mrs. Sanderson's course, but at the time, I did not doubt the woman, and was so completely bewitched by Mariposilla's beauty, that I failed to disapprove what appeared to be only a pleasant pastime. Never before had I seen any one so lovely as this young girl. The rich tints had kindled beneath her cheeks, while her eyes, when she lifted them, shone with lambent reflections of wonderful, half-understood joy. She appeared a vision from a lost century, playing upon the credulity of the present. I do not wish to give the impression that Mariposilla was a marvelous musician, for such was not the case. She only played with an original abandon which made her movements and the customary little tricks of her instrument appear more masterly than in reality they were. Her playing depended entirely upon her mood, and that she was now happy, carried far away from vexation or possible disappointment, was plain; for the slender brown fingers picked the strings as never before. She seemed perfectly absorbed in her music, and only when the long lashes lifted for a moment did her wonderful eyes proclaim the truth she was attempting to hide. When the lashes again drooped, soft, telltale shadows quivered beneath the dark fringe that hid her impassioned joy. The ridges of her small ears grew pink, her lips richer. The merest reflection of dimples fled and returned to the glowing cheeks, as each new emotion revealed her happy secret. The day, I have said, had been unusually warm. The sun had reached its meridian without faltering; only above the mountains had the fathomless blue of the sky been broken by a few thin clouds. Unexpectedly the air grew chill as the sun fled behind a bank of fog, which spread each moment with amazing density upon the valley. With the first dimming of the day, a change appeared in Mariposilla; while Miss Walton grew at once serene. Unexpectedly and discordantly the Spanish child ended her performance. Like a frightened bird she fluttered to my side, her color gone, her courage shaken. "We must go," I said, turning to Mrs. Sanderson. "Marjorie must not be exposed to the fog," I explained, as we bade good bye to Miss Walton and Ethel. There appeared to be a mock significance in Miss Margaret's thin voice when she invited us to repeat our visit. Ethel alone accompanied us to the door. CHAPTER IX.