Patty had sought the _galleria_ after dinner, and stood watching the great stars slip down behind the mountains. From below came the laughter and chatter of the _vacqueros_ who had gathered in the wine-room. There was more movement than usual on the little _plaza_, on account of the presence of so many cattle drivers. The air was sweet with the scent of blossoms hidden behind garden walls or nodding from the boxes set in windows. Paulette, Don Tomás and Doña Martina were pacing the white way. Don Juan was busy over his papers. Patty, leaning her arms on the ledge of the _galleria_ rested her chin upon them. It was pleasant to be there. One seldom had a chance to be alone, and once in a while one must have time to think. How long ago it seemed since she and Tina had come from home, that home which was now broken up. Five years Tina had been married. Before that was the yellow house with white pillars, the garden--ah, yes, that was it--the scent of flowers reminded her of home. She could see her father pacing, pacing, his hands behind him, his head bent. That was after the days when her frail little mother, with big eyes like Patty’s own, used to walk the garden-paths, holding little Patty by the hand, the little six year old Patty, who suddenly missed the dear companion and found out there was no use in asking again for mother, for she was in far off heaven, too distant to reach. Then grandma Beckwith took mother’s place at table, and finally there was neither grandma Beckwith nor papa to haunt the garden walks, only Patty and Tina and the new brother Juan. Three years these had lived in the old house, then it was leased for a term of years and the two sisters came abroad, Patty to finish her education with the sisters in a convent, and Tina to follow her husband wherever his business might call him. They had gone to London first and then to Paris, where, within the last year, Don Juan had been desperately ill, and upon his recovery had felt that nothing would complete his cure but the healthful breezes of his native province in northern Spain. It had been a long two years for Patty, although there were visits from her sister once in a while, and one Christmas there had been a jolly good time at an old chateau, where lived an American fellow schoolmate, who had invited Patty with some other girls for a holiday visit. Now schooldays were over and what next? The summer here, and then would they go to Madrid as Don Juan sometimes thought of doing? Would they stay here in Asturias? Would they return to America? This present experience was delightfully novel and entertaining. It was pleasant, too, to be with dear old Tina, who tried to be so strict and to maintain such discipline with her young sister, just as she had always tried in the days gone by, but-- A homesick feeling came over Patty, a longing for the old home, the old ways, for the beloved country whose faults, like her own, were but youthful faults after all.