Nancy first and last

by Amy Ella Blanchard

Her mother looked very serious. "Could he have thought so and have lost faith so easily?"

Anita was on her knees in a moment to throw her arms around her mother. "Oh, dearest," she cried, "forgive me. I am too mean for anything, too mean and thoughtless."

The deepest affection had sprung up between the mother and daughter, born, originally of the dependence of patient upon nurse, but growing stronger and stronger after their true relationship was discovered. It may be said that the spoiled, wilful, excitable girl was not easily brought under her mother's complete control. She was used to having her own way, to dominating Mrs. Loomis, the governess, the servants, and more than one battle royal took place before there was an adjustment of difficulties. There was too much of her father in her make-up for her to yield opinions readily, but, as time went on, she grew more reasonable, and though she might rush off in a passion of tears, she would return repentant when the storm was over, shower kisses upon her mother and beg to be loved. The realities of life came more and more to make their impress upon her, romantic dreams held less sway, while travel was beginning to bring her greater poise, more tolerance and calmer judgment.

Madrid supplied no material hope for finding Pepé and at last in a little village in northern Spain, at the foot of the mountains they found themselves. A small fonda sheltered them and from this point they expected to start their inquiries.

"I did not much expect we should find Pepé until we reached this neighborhood, did you, mother?" said Anita, standing before the mirror and brushing her short locks.

"It would seem the most promising place, yet——"

"Oh, I know what that aunt-in-law wrote, but he may not have gone to those people; there are some cousins, you said. Isn't it queer, mother? I am a totally different looking person from the one you first saw. My hair is growing darker and darker. I rather like it so, for it makes me look more Spanish, don't you think so?"

"Much more so, although there are fair-haired Spaniards, especially in this part of the country."

"Yes, I know; I have seen a few, but I like the effect of the dark hair and eyes with the pure whiteness of the skin. There are many like that. As they lean over the balconies, at a distance they look so very fetching even though they may not be at all pretty. Shall we wear mantillas? I haven't seen a hat since I came into this town. I'd love to wear a mantilla."

She went out on the corredor and leaned on the ledge, looking off toward the mountains towering up so near. There was a sound of water trickling from the fountain to which all day long women and children went with brass-bound buckets poised upon their heads. There was the tinkle of a mandolin, and a man's voice trolling out a long-sustained note at the close of a mountaineer's song. Then came the jangling of bells as a muleteer drew up his gaily caparisoned team before the door, and left it there to go into the cantina below from which issued the sound of clinking glasses and laughter. Above all the silent stars gleamed peacefully or dropped suddenly behind the sombre green of the mountains.