And so the game went on, neither of them caring where the ball went so that it could be hit again when it came their way.

When it was about to stay its flight I ventured in with the remark that she must not forget to give my kindest and best to her good father.  I think she had forgotten I was standing so near.

“And you know daddy!” she cried—­the real girl was shining in her eyes now—­all the coquetry had vanished from her face.

“Yes—­we worked together on the piers of the big bridge over the Delaware; oh, long ago.”

“Isn’t he the very dearest?  He promised to come here today, but I know he won’t.  Poor daddy, he gets home so tired sometimes.  He has just started on the big tunnel and there is so much to do.  I have been helping him with his papers every night.  But when Aunt Felicia’s note came—­she isn’t my real aunt, you know, but I have called her so ever since I was a little girl—­daddy insisted on my coming, and so I have left him for just a few days.  He will be so glad when I tell him I have met one of his old friends.”  There was no question of her beauty, or poise, or her naturalness.

“Been a lady all her life, my dear Major, and her mother before her,” Miss Felicia said when I joined her afterward, and Miss Felicia knew.  “She is not like any of the young girls about, as you can see for yourself.  Look at her now,” she whispered, with an approving nod of her head.

Again my eyes sought the girl.  The figure was willowy and graceful; the shoulders sloping, the arms tapering to the wrists.  The hair was jet black—­“Some Spanish blood somewhere,” I suggested, but the dear lady answered sharply, “Not a drop; French Huguenot, my dear Major, and I am surprised you should have made such a mistake.”  This black hair parted in the middle, lay close to her head—­such a wealth and torrent of it; even with tucking it behind her ears and gathering it in a coil in her neck it seemed just ready to fall.  The face was oval, the nose perfect, the mouth never still for an instant, so full was it of curves and twinkles and little quivers; the eyes big, absorbing, restful, with lazy lids that lifted slowly and lay motionless as the wings of a resting butterfly, the eyebrows full and exquisitely arched.  Had you met her in mantilla and high-heeled shoes, her fan half shading her face, you would have declared, despite Miss Felicia’s protest, that only the click of the castanets was needed to send her whirling to their rhythm.  Had she tied that same mantilla close under her lovely chin, and passed you with upturned eyes and trembling lips, you would have sworn that the Madonna from the neighboring church had strayed from its frame in search of the helpless and the unhappy; and had none of these disguises been hers, and she had flashed by you in the open some bright morning mounted on her own black mare, face aglow, eyes like stars, her wonderful hair waving in the wind, you would have stood stock-still in admiration, fear gripping your throat, a prayer in your heart for the safe home-coming of one so fearless and so beautiful.