ords of our language, the cause of a rudeness towards
him which he persisted in calling a great insult and inhospitality
manifested to a stranger and an exile. I succeeded at length in
pacifying him. I remained for more than an hour at the cottage, and
I left it with a heart beating at a certain persuasion that I had
established therein the claim of acquaintance and visitation.

Will the reader pardon me for having curtailed this scene? It is
connected with a subject on which I shall better endure to dwell as
my narrative proceeds. From that time I paid frequent visits to the
cottage; the Spaniard soon grew intimate with me, and I thought the
daughter began to blush when I entered, and to sigh when I departed.

One evening I was conversing with Don Diego D'Alvarez (such was the
Spaniard's name), as he sat without the threshold, inhaling the gentle
air, that stole freshness from the rippling sea that spread before us,
and fragrance from the earth, over which the summer now reigned in its
most mellow glory. Isora (the daughter) sat at a little distance.

"How comes it," said Don Diego, "that you have never met our friend
Senor Bar--Bar--these English names are always escaping my memory. How
is he called, Isora?"

"Mr.--Mr. Barnard," said Isora (who, brought early to England, spoke its
language like a native), but with evident confusion, and looking down as
she spoke--"Mr. Barnard, I believe, you mean."

"Right, my love," rejoined the Spaniard, who was smoking a long pipe
with great gravity, and did not notice his daughter's embarrassment,--"a
fine youth, but somewhat shy and over-modest in manner."

"Youth!" thought I, and I darted a piercing look towards Isora. "How
comes it, indeed," I said aloud, "that I have not met him? Is he a
friend of long standing?"

"Nay, not very,--perhaps of some six weeks earlier date than you, Senor
Don Devereux. I pressed him, when he called this morning, to tarry your
coming: but, poor youth, he is diffident, and not yet accustomed to
mix freely with strangers, especially those of rank; our own presence a
little overawes him;" and from Don Diego's gray mustachios issued a yet
fuller cloud than was ordinarily wont to emerge thence.

My eyes were still fixed on Isora; she looked up, met them, blushed
deeply, rose, and disappeared within the house. I was already
susceptible of jealousy. My lip trembled as I resumed: "And will Don
Diego pardon me for inquiring how commenced his knowled