half hysterically as she drew in her head. Then she turned her face toward the window while the tears rolled down her own cheeks. She was leaving forever the only home she had ever known.

It was one morning of the following spring that from the deck of a vessel lying off the little white city of Cadiz, the mother and daughter looked earnestly toward land. The girl's short curly hair was blown about her face by the wind from the sea, and she pushed it back from her eager eyes that she might better take in the view of the wide granite quay, the great sea walls and projecting bastions; then her eyes traveled further to where the tall houses rose, silver-white, against an intensely blue sky. "Spain!" murmured the girl, clasping her hands closely. "Spain! The home of my father's people. I know I shall love it."

"SPAIN," MURMURED THE GIRL

"So shall I," returned her mother, "for your father's sake. Poor, mistaken José, if only he had realized how I loved him; if only he had believed in me. Ah, Anita, I am so divided between hope and fear—hope that we shall find my little Pepé, fear that he, too, has left this earth."

Anita, now quite accustomed to her new name, pressed her mother's hand and drew closer to her. "Hope, mother, hope. You mustn't fear. I intend to keep on hoping till I have every proof that there is no longer any reason to doubt. We shall find him. I feel sure we shall, if not here then somewhere."

"So you said when we reached New Orleans, and Cuba the same."

"So I still say. The farther we go the more convinced I am. Oh, mother, dear, there could be nothing more marvellous than the fortune which sent you to me; after that I must believe that anything is possible." She waved a hand toward the city. "Are you there, brother?" she cried. "Come down and meet us."

"Oh, daughter," her mother smiled half sadly, "how confident you are. Is it because you are so young or because you really have a prophetic instinct?"

"A little of each, perhaps," returned Anita gaily. "Have I not had experiences enough to warrant me in my faith? Think of my condition a year ago, motherless, homeless, poor, and now look at me: my own mother by my side and sufficient means to make a home with her when our voyagings are over. Dear, good old weedy Weed to manage so well that I should have enough, not great wealth, but enough. We can live comfortably on our little income in England, you said, and when we find Pepé we can go there."

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