When Leota appeared she said nothing of her discovery, but when she spoke to him it was in a different tone from formerly. The mystery of the enchanted harp was over, but the greater mystery had begun.
The wonderful eyes acted as a talisman upon her heart, and though she strove against it, she found herself forgetting Crimson Tuft’s position, his ugly brown skin and red hair.
One glance of his beaming eyes would set her warm blood dancing through her veins till her neck and brow were a soft rose-tint, and this was in no way pleasant to the proud little maiden.
The next night Crimson Tuft did not touch the harp, and in the morning the Donna Leota passed him at his work with a haughty toss of her dainty head, but with a quiver in her voice she said, “Crimson Tuft, play when you like, the music pleases me.”
After that Crimson Tuft would always play at twilight, and even the old grandmother was touched by the magical spell of his genius.
Every year the old woman grew more infirm, till she could not even walk from room to room without leaning upon her staff. At times her temper was terrible, and nothing but the soft touch of Leota’s hand could calm her. She loved with all her strong hard nature the young maiden who daily was growing to womanhood crowned with surpassing beauty.
She was getting very old. With an iron will she resisted the pitiless hand of time, but she could not stay it. Her long hands became more bony and angular, her eyes more red and bleared, and her voice more cracked and shrill; yet she seemed to be looking forward to a long life, and was more hard and grasping than ever. It was only Leota that she loved more than gold.
One night Crimson Tuft had a curious dream. He thought, as he lay half sleeping and half waking, dreaming delightful but impossible things, that the old woman came in softly and poured something upon his head, and that when he started, she held a sponge to his nose, until he sank back powerless. He seemed to inhale something sweet and fragrant. It was very pleasant and soothing: that was all he could remember. In the morning, he felt heavy and drowsy, his head ached, but he roused himself, rose and dressed as usual. When he looked in the glass he saw that his hair was redder, and his skin a deeper brown than ever. Memories and a strange suspicion flashed over his mind.
Far back in the years he remembered dimly a little boy, named Paul, a fair child, whom he had been taught to believe a dream. There was a mystery. Could she have changed Paul to Crimson Tuft in a night?
After this, Crimson Tuft became more thoughtful than ever. There was a mystery to solve, and he would devote all his energies to it. He was eighteen years old, a very intelligent young man, but entirely unacquainted with the world. He had yet much to learn.