She had persuaded Mrs. Rothe to go to a pension instead of a hotel—she had heard of one frequented mainly by artists—and with less difficulty than she had anticipated, for it was the season of travelling Americans, and her erring but sensitive chaperon was weary of being stared at. The front windows of the pension looked upon a street whose paving-stones and walls had echoed the tramp of Moorish feet for nearly 1000 years, and are still as eloquent of that indomitable race as if the Spanish conquerors had never passed under the Gate of Justice. In an angle at the back of the house was a garden with a long, latticed window in its high wall, and beyond were the great shade-trees of Alhambra Park. There was a sound of running water and the hum of drowsy insects, but it seemed as quiet as a necropolis after the long flight from the station behind the jingling mules into Granada, and the following drive over the rough streets of the city up to the heights of the Alhambra. Catalina’s room had windows on both street and garden, and she could look down into Over’s room in the other side of the angle, on the floor below. The garden, although the kitchen opened upon it, was full of sweet-smelling flowers and rustic chairs, and at one end was a long table where a man sat painting. There were no palms here, for Granada is 2000 feet above the Mediterranean and the eternal snows are on the Sierras behind her. “I suppose, then,” said Catalina, after a half-hour’s dreaming, “that you don’t mind if I go for a walk without you?” “Oh, do wait! I’m quite fit now.” “I’ll meet you down in the street.” On her way through the quaint, irregular house she met a tall, fine-looking girl, who half smiled and bowed as if welcoming her to the pension. For a moment Catalina wondered if by any chance her family could have bought out the Spanish proprietors, but dismissed the thought. The girl was not only unmistakably American, but of the independent class. She wore a blue veil about the edge of her large hat, and her ashen hair in a single deep curve on her forehead. Her white shirt-waist and white duck skirt were adjusted with a perfection of detail that suggested the habit of a maid or of time and concentrated thought. Her features were good, and in spite of a hint of selfishness and rigidity about the mouth, and a pair of rather cold gray eyes, her smile was very sweet. But her claim to distinction was in her grooming, her beauty mien, and in her subtle air of gracious patronage. “She looks like a princess and yet not quite like a lady,” thought Catalina. “What can she be?”