"Do not cry any more, Pilly," said her grandfather. "You have done no harm by keeping the castanets. Perhaps you have done good. I shall tell you why later on. But first let us have our dinner."

Pilar tried to smile. She brushed away her tears. Her grandfather was actually hungry! Oh, this meant that really and truly he was getting well!

Pilar started toward the kitchen. She had planned such a splendid dinner for tonight, and now they would be obliged to eat beans and drink milk.

If only she could prepare her grandfather's favorite omelet stuffed with creamed fish, or a bowl of stew, made out of chick-peas, garlic, potatoes, sausage, peppers, and cabbage! But—

What was that white thing lying under the door? Pilar stooped down and picked up a letter. It was postmarked "U.S.A."

Now very few of Pilar's friends would have known what those initials meant. And even if they had been told, many of them would have shrieked with laughter and cried, "Only red Indians live there!"

But Pilar's grandfather had been in America long ago, and, of course, her mother had danced there.

The letter came from Antonio Santaella, and that was Tony—Tony, who had lived in Seville as a boy and was now an important merchant in America. Enclosed in the letter, Pilar found paper bills—money—more money than Pilar and her grandfather had seen in many years!

Tony wrote that he would always remember Pilar's mother, known as "The Little Spanish Dancer." He also asked Pilar whether she, too, would become a dancer when she grew up.

Pilar's eyes shone.

"Oh, Grandfather!" she cried. "What a kind man SeÑor Tony is! How much I love him! How I wish to be a dancer like my mother! Shall we have eggs or stew for dinner?" She had said it all in one breath. She rushed to open the door on her way to market, adding, "I shall be right ba—pf-f-f!"

With a terrible thud, Pilar had bumped into a tall gentleman who stood at the door. It was the great dancing master.

"Good evening," he said. "Are you SeÑorita Pilar?"

Pilar backed into the room. She looked like a scared little rabbit. What did he want? Had he come to take her castanets?

"Ah, yes, you are the SeÑorita Pilar," continued the gentleman. He came into the room, closed the door behind him, and sat down calmly.

"And this, I believe, is seÑor, your grandfather. No?" He smiled at the old man, who lay quietly in his bed. "You see, I found out all about you, seÑorita. After you ran away from me in the garden, I made up my mind to follow you, and I did."

Suddenly Pilar's eyes flashed angrily.

"You cannot have the castanets!" she cried.

She was standing in the center of the room, and her face was white with fury. Her small body was drawn up, rigid and tense.

"I'll never let you have them!" she screamed. "They're mine! Mine! Mine!"

She stamped her foot and threw back her head. But the tall gentleman did not seem in the least disturbed. He just sat there looking at her and smiling as if he were watching a play.

Indeed, one had the impression that he might begin to clap at any moment. But he did not.

Instead, he just laughed good-naturedly and said, "What a little firecracker you are! And how graceful, too! Now, listen, child."

He had stopped smiling. He leaned forward and spoke to Pilar in a serious voice.

"Listen to me, Pilar," he said. "I do not want your castanets if you do not care to sell them to me. But—" He hesitated for a moment while Pilar stared at him, still with that look of anger and fear in her eyes. "But I do want something else!"

Pilar's grandfather raised himself upon his pillow. "What is it that you wish, SeÑor?" he asked.

"The Little Spanish Dancer!" replied the gentleman. "I want Pilar!"

Both Pilar and her grandfather started. What was this man talking about?

"I want to take Pilar to my school," he went on, "and teach her. For I believe that some day she will be a wonderful dancer. And I should know, for I have taught some of the best dancers in Spain."

Now Pilar realized who he was. Often she had passed the window of his dancing school. She had watched the fortunate pupils and listened to the strains of a tango and the clatter of castanets.

Upon the walls of the school were colored posters showing scenes of bullfights. Girls and boys, young and old, stamped their feet and twirled to fiery music.

It had always made Pilar's heart beat faster. She had longed to join them. But lessons were only for wealthy children and—

"But, seÑor," said Pilar's grandfather, as if he had been reading Pilar's mind, "we have no money to spend on lessons."

"I shall ask no money," replied the dancing master. "No. Our school will some day be proud of SeÑorita Pilar."

He stood up and put out his hand to the little girl.

"Come tomorrow for your first lesson," he said. "My brother will instruct you. My brother, you know, is the second greatest dancing master in Spain."

"And who is the first, seÑor?" asked Pilar's grandfather.

"Why, I am, of course!" answered the tall man proudly, and walked out of the room.

When he had left, there was much rejoicing in the tiny house. Pilar went out and bought a basket full of good things, and they had dinner.

After dinner, they sat together, silent and happy, the old man's wrinkled hand caressing the child's glossy black hair.

Then all at once, in a low, mysterious voice, the grandfather began to recite:

When he had told Pilar about the magic castanets and the legends with their strange lessons, she felt a wave of joy sweep through her.

"Oh, then, it must have been the magic of the castanets that brought us all this good fortune, Grandfather!" she cried.

Her grandfather smiled wisely and shook his head.

"No, Pilly," he said. "Good fortune always comes to those who think good thoughts and who work hard. There is no magic in that."

THE END