“Wait a minute, Zerlina,” called Ruth, kindly. “Won’t you accept this red velvet bow? It would look pretty in your black hair.”
“Thank you,” exclaimed the girl, her eyes filling with tears. “You are very good to me.” Her lip trembled as if she were about to burst into tears, but she conquered them with an effort and started to the door. “Good-bye,” she said, looking at Bab so reproachfully that the latter’s heart was melted to pity.
At dinner that night there was much concern expressed for poor Jimmie who, with his face swathed in bandages, was sound asleep in his own room. Stephen had been closeted with his uncle for half an hour before the gong sounded, and the major’s usually placid face was haunted by an expression of deep worry.
“Do tell us about the hermit, Stephen,” cried Grace, and that being a safe subject the four adventurers plunged into a description of the strange old man and the miniature that so resembled Bab.
“Do you remember when he came, Major?” asked Miss Stuart.
“Only vaguely,” replied the major, “I was quite a little chap then, eight or ten, I think I was, and we were living in France at the time. He had become a fixture when we came back, but he always shunned advances from my family. Undoubtedly he was a fugitive from somewhere. However, this is not such an out-of-the-way place but that he could have been found if they had looked for him very hard. I have not seen him for many years. How does he look?”
“Like an exiled prince,” answered Ruth. “He is a very noble looking old man.”
“José, did you play croquet with the girls this morning?” asked Stephen.
“Wasn’t he mean?” interrupted Mollie. “No sooner had you gone than he was off on his motor cycle.”
The young Spaniard’s face had flushed scarlet at the question, but he smiled at Mollie’s teasing reply and looked Stephen squarely in the eye.