a universal welcome in spite of his ragged robes, and for several days he led a gay life in the old Moorish capital and its environs.  One of his occasional haunts was the fountain of Avellanos, in the valley of Darro.  It is one of the popular resorts of Granada, and has been so since the days of the Moors; and here the student had an opportunity of pursuing his studies of female beauty; a branch of study to which he was a little prone.

“Here he would take his seat with his guitar, improvise love-ditties to admiring groups of majos and majas, or prompt with his music the ever-ready dance.  He was thus engaged one evening when he beheld a padre of the church advancing, at whose approach every one touched the hat.  He was evidently a man of consequence; he certainly was a mirror of good if not of holy living; robust and rosy-faced, and breathing at every pore with the warmth of the weather and the exercise of the walk.  As he passed along he would every now and then draw a maravedi out of his pocket and bestow it on a beggar, with an air of signal beneficence.  ’Ah, the blessed father!’ would be the cry; ’long life to him, and may he soon be a bishop!’

“To aid his steps in ascending the hill he leaned gently now and then on the arm of a handmaid, evidently the pet-lamb of this kindest of pastors.  Ah, such a damsel!  Andalus from head to foot; from the rose in her hair, to the fairy shoe and lacework stocking; Andalus in every movement; in every undulation of the body:—­ripe, melting Andalus!  But then so modest!—­so shy!—­ever, with downcast eyes, listening to the words of the padre; or, if by chance she let flash a side glance, it was suddenly checked and her eyes once more cast to the ground.

“The good padre looked benignantly on the company about the fountain, and took his seat with some emphasis on a stone bench, while the handmaid hastened to bring him a glass of sparkling water.  He sipped it deliberately and with a relish, tempering it with one of those spongy pieces of frosted eggs and sugar so dear to Spanish epicures, and on returning the glass to the hand of the damsel pinched her cheek with infinite loving-kindness.

     “‘Ah, the good pastor!’ whispered the student to himself; ’what a
     happiness would it be to be gathered into his fold with such a
     pet-lamb for a companion!’

“But no such good fare was likely to befall him.  In vain he essayed those powers of pleasing which he had found so irresistible with country curates and country lasses.  Never had he touched his guitar with such skill; never had he poured forth more soul-moving ditties, but he had no longer a country curate or country lass to deal with.  The worthy priest evidently did not relish music, and the modest damsel never raised her eyes from the ground.  They remained but a short time at the fountain; the good padre hastened their return to Granada.  The damsel gave