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Don Manuel sat curled up in one of the deep -seats of the living room at the Valdés home, and lifted his clear tenor softly in an old Spanish love-song to the accouitar

It is possible that the young Spaniard sang the serenade impersonally, as much to the elderly duenna who slumbered placidly on the other side of the fireplace as to his lovely young hostess But his eyes told another story They strayed continuously toward that sliloith a piece of eers

He could look at her the es of her lids were downcast to the dusky cheeks, the better to exaed

Don Manuel felt the hour propitious It was impossible for him not to feel that in the past weeks so had come between them; soht he had again woven the spell of romance around her As she sat there, a sweet shadowy forallant heart had gone with hi, had remained with him in the transition to the more tender note of love

He rose, thuuitar down softly For a tiht, and under its spell the longing in hihts, my cousin Is it not that a house is a prison in such an hour? Let us forth"

So forth they fared to the porch, and from the porch to the sentinel rock which rose like a needle fro hill Across the sea of silver they looked to the violet hts of evening, and both of theood to live--and to know this," she said at last softly

"It is good to live and, best of all, to know you," he made answer slowly

She did not turn fron that she had heard; but to herself she was saving: "It has come"

While he pleaded his cause passionately, with all the ardor of hot-blooded Spain, the girl heard only with her ears She was searching her heart for the answer to the question she asked of it: "Is this the man?"