In the early days, many strange things happened. It was the mystical age of romance in the Gold Land, and people seemed to live years in months, or even weeks. Thus a great deal has been forgotten.

In the old countries it was not so, and it may be that some are living even now at “dear Bingen on the Rhine,” who remember tenderly the handsome young couple who left their home to seek the alluring treasures of the Gold Land in “the early days.”

They were honest peasants in the Father land, but over the waters had floated the marvelous story, how, in the glorious El Dorado, any one might become a lord of the soil or a rich miner prince.

This it was that fired the heart of the father; and as the mother looked upon their boy, she too was ready to go out into the great world, though her heart lay fondly to the beloved Fatherland.

They had little money, but the thrifty good-man managed to work for one and another on the passage, till, when he arrived at the young city of tents within the Golden Gate, he had cash enough to make a beginning in life.

They were soon domesticated in a little shanty, and in a short time had prepared a fine garden, which became the good-man’s pride. Every morning dame Waltenburger went to the market, where she had a stall, and sold fruit and vegetables for gold dust, for that was the currency of the country in “the early days.”The little son was ten years old, and a real delight to the mother’s heart.

He was well formed, with fine features, golden brown hair, and wonderfully expressive eyes. When he was calm and happy they were of a soft looming blue, but if excited or angry, they grew dark and fierce, flashing like balls of fire.

It pleased him above all things, to assist the dear mother at the market, and very soon he displayed great taste in the arrangements of the fruits and vegetables.

With maternal pride, the mother often told the neighbors “it would be impossible to do without Paul,” for really he was the greatest help to her.

When the flowers were in blossom, the boy always made them into bouquets and garlands, while his pretty ways brought many a purchaser.

Sometimes he used to carry home parcels for ladies who had made large purchases, and very often he received presents from them. With the regular customers the handsome little fellow was a great favorite.

One day, as Paul and the mother sat in the stall together, talking of the dear Fatherland so far away, they saw a very queer-looking Spanish woman approaching. She seemed bowed down with age and infirmities, and leaned heavily upon her staff as she hobbled along with the greatest difficulty.

After the Spanish fashion her head was covered with a shawl, from which peered her thin sharp face, quite furrowed with wrinkles. Her bleared eyes were red, and her long hooked nose nearly met her pointed chin. Altogether she was very unpleasant in her appearance.

All the time she kept her toothless mouth moving as she mumbled indistinctly to herself.She came directly up to dame Waltenburger’s stall, and entering it, threw herself down upon the bench, exclaiming: “This is what comes of growing old, nothing but weariness, care, and aching of bones,” and she began rubbing her knees and muttering to herself.

Little Paul stood looking at her, his eyes dilated with wonder, and the compassion of his heart made them blue as the cloudless sky.

“Ah!” exclaimed the old woman, looking into his innocent face with a hideous grimace, “what are you staring at, with your great round owl-eyes? Do you think it is a fine thing to be old, and lame, and poor? You will have to come to it. Ah! yes, there is a comfort in that.”

“Old Father Time will take care of you. Yes! yes! yes!” And she shook her long bony fingers, and chuckled in such a horrible way, that the child retreated behind the mother’s chair, and hid his face upon her protecting shoulder.

“Go quickly, boy, and bring me some fresh water,” said the old woman, “I am very thirsty,” she added, looking at the mother.

Little Paul took a glass and ran away to the well and drew a bucket of water, so clear and sparkling that it glistened in the sunlight like the dew of the morning.

As he carried it along, he thought how the professor had told him of shining nectar that Hebe used to bear in the golden cup to Jupiter and all the gods of Olympus.

“That was in the olden time,” he said, “but no nectar could be more beautiful and pure than the water the loving God in heaven gives to us all.”

Offering it to the old woman, his open rosy face beaming with smiles, he said “it is nectar fit for the gods, and I am your cup-bearer.”

Then he bowed so prettily that the mother laughed, saying, “did one ever see such a child? oh! you mischief,” and she shook her fingers in the cunning old way that all mothers do.

The old woman took the glass, but managed to spill half its contents over the child’s clean clothes, then she chuckled with delight at his discomfiture, saying “see what it is to be old, my little cup-bearer.”

While the mother wiped off the water with her handkerchief the woman began picking over the vegetables and fruit with her thin hooked fingers, and smelling every bouquet of flowers, till little Paul’s eyes grew dark and flashed like living flames.

“Just see her, mother,” he whispered, “who will buy them after she has handled every thing with her dirty hands, and snuffed all the sweetness and beauty out of the flowers with her ugly, crooked nose?”

“Oh, you little viper,” cried the old woman, springing forward, “I’ll teach you to mock at old age.”

Paul was too quick for her, and had it not been for the mother she would have fallen, in her eagerness to catch him.

“Never mind the child, my good woman,” said dame Waltenburger, gently, “we were all children once, now how can I serve you?”

“To be sure! we were all children once. Ah! me!

“Oh, no! I don’t mind the child, my little cup-bearer,” and the old woman drew her wizen face into a hundred wrinkles, and began selecting a large quantity of fruits, vegetables and herbs, far more than she could carry.

“Is it far you have to go?” said the mother.

Crimson Tuft.“No, no! not far,” replied the woman.

So the mother called Paul to help her. He was very reluctant to go; but, when the mother kissed him, and promised to make him a beautiful ball, and cover it with red morocco, he came forward and took the basket readily.

“And I,” said the old woman, “will give him a beautiful crimson tuft; he will be gay as a lark, my little cup-bearer.”

This seemed delightful to Paul, and he followed after the old woman, thinking—“I can play soldier with the crimson tuft, and the professor in the next house will hear me, and call me Charlemagne. It will be glorious to be the soldier with the crimson tuft.”

Little Paul walked on in quite a lordly way, with his great martial thoughts echoing in all the chambers of his boyish heart, “It will be glorious—the soldier of the crimson tuft!”

On, on they went, far out into the sand hills, in an opposite direction from his own home.

Paul’s arm began to ache very much, carrying the heavy basket, but he was feeling so manly, that he did not like to complain; but at last he became so tired, that it was no use—he could not bear it any longer, and great tears filled his eyes and covered his rosy cheeks.

All the way the old woman had been muttering to herself in Spanish, but Paul could not understand that.

“I am so tired,” he said, resting the basket upon the ground.

“Oh, it is not far! not far! and I will give you the bright crimson tuft—think of that,” replied the old woman.

So Paul took up the basket, and again they went on a long, long way, and turned so many corners, he feared he could never find his way back, but still the thought of the crimson tuft allured him.

“I must have it,” he said; “that would be a real pleasure.”

At last, when he was just ready to fall down with fatigue, they came to a great iron-barred gate, and the old woman rung the bell very loudly.

In a moment a great rough voice called, in Spanish, as through a trumpet, “Who rings at the gate?”

Very soon the gate was opened by a curious-looking dwarf, who started and grinned fearfully when he saw Paul.

The child offered him the basket, but he only shook his head, pointing after the old woman, who gave him her staff, and walked along with as much ease as little Paul himself.Now the child was really frightened, and would have run away, but he was already within the gate, and, with a great clang, it closed. The dwarf put up the iron bars, and replaced the bolts. Nothing could be more secure, for all around rose an immense high fence, topped with sharp spikes. It was impossible to escape—no one could get in or out.

A long avenue led to a pleasant-looking house, built in the Spanish fashion. It was shaded with beautiful trees, that had been brought from the southern country. How they waved their long fan-like leaves in the sunshine! It was a picture engraven upon the child’s mind never to be effaced.

Under the shadow of the trees walked the old woman toward the house, and Paul followed with the basket, trembling like the light leaves of the tamarind. Just behind him came the dwarf. He could hear his heavy tread.

“It is no use! no use!” thought the child; but he would gladly have given the tempting crimson tuft, the red morocco ball, all, all his pretty treasures, to have been once more by the mother’s side, selling vegetables in the market.

They entered a large, pleasant drawing-room, with doors opening upon the front piazza and upon the verandah of the inner court, so that, though it was very warm, a delicious breeze swept through the room, and made it delightfully cool.

The old woman threw herself upon a couch, and, pointing to a silver bell, told Paul to ring it, adding, “My little cup-bearer, you must be tired, and I will order something to refresh you before you return to your good mother.”

“I am not so very tired,” said Paul; “let me go—the mother will need me;” and he looked imploringly into the pitiless face that he was beginning to fear above all things.

“Ring the bell, boy,” was the only answer.

So he rang the bell, and the dwarf, who had left them on the piazza, entered.

The woman addressed him in Spanish, which Paul did not understand, but, as he went to and from a large closet, and began spreading the table, he would turn his curious squinting eyes upon the child with looks of compassion.

In a short time all was ready; and what a delicious lunch it might have been to the child, but for the great fear that overshadowed him! Delicate cakes and confections, cold chicken, eggs, and all kinds of fruits that children are so fond of, with many nice-looking things that Paul had never seen before.

There was a great pyramid of ice-cream. “How I should like to eat it with the dear mother!” thought Paul.

Oh! that was a delicious lunch, to be sure!

“Come, let us sit down,” said the old woman.

“I am not hungry,” answered Paul, timidly; for he longed so greatly to be at home, that even these unaccustomed delicacies, and the promised crimson tuft, were as nothing compared with the sweet comfort at the dear mother’s side.

“You silly child! You have walked all this distance, carrying that great basket, and are not hungry? Well, you are thirsty, and for your nectar of the gods, I will return you the sherbet of an eastern prince.”

The woman filled a glass with a clear, rosy liquid, that bubbled up and sparkled so temptingly, that little Paul, who was quite overcome with fatigue and thirst, grasped it eagerly, and did not take the glass from his lips till he had drained it to the bottom.

Then he wished to start for home, but he felt so drowsy that he could not move. He thought of the mother, but felt no emotion, and looked at the hideous old woman, who was grinning horribly, without fear. In a few moments he sunk down upon the couch, in a heavy sleep.

The woman stood over him, chuckling in great glee. “I have you now, my pretty cup-bearer, and will make you of great use to me. I will teach you a thousand things you would be glad not to know! You shall have a crimson tuft, ha! ha! ha! I will teach you to be impertinent to me! My hooked nose! to be sure. Ah! I am old! old! and nothing can make me young and fair. If I could only take for myself your young beauty! But, no! one day I must die, and that will be the end.”

The woman’s face grew convulsed—for she was haunted by the grim specter, Death, as with a dread terror. Her life had been so filled with darkness, that she could not look forward to the calm hereafter. All the brightness and beauty of heaven, the golden, was like the fleeting dreams of childhood, that the rolling years, bearing her to the portals of dim old age, had swept away.

She had studied magic, and tried to find the elixir of life, but in vain. She had discovered many wonderful things, but not the fountain of perpetual youth, nor the precious elixir of life.

For a few moments she stood gazing at the fresh face and rich curls of the child, as he lay sleeping in his pure innocence. Once the word “mother” passed his rosy lips, and the woman waved a perfumed fan over him, till even the mother was no longer the companion of his dreamless sleep.

“Now, it will do to begin,” said the old woman, and she took from a secret drawer in the closet several bottles containing liquids, and placed them on a little table. Taking a pair of sharp scissors, she sat down by the child, and cut off all his beautiful brown curls, leaving only a little tuft. This she made quite stiff in some way, and colored it bright red, tying it upon the top of his head, so that it stood up and looked very strangely.

“There is the crimson tuft, my little cup-bearer,” she said, laughing heartily at her wicked work.

Then she tinged his eyebrows red, and his skin a dark mahogany color, until, instead of the beautiful little Paul that everybody had loved and admired, he appeared the ugliest little wretch one could well imagine.

She took off his neat, plain clothes, dressing him in yellow leather breeches and a fantastic red jacket. Upon his feet she put shoes with long pointed toes, that turned up and were tied with red ribbons. When she had finished, she looked at him with great satisfaction.

“Even the old dame herself would not know her cub now. What an ugly little goat he has become, to be sure!” And the old woman, after her usual way, muttered to herself.

At last she sat down, and, eating and drinking, for, by this time, she was quite hungry, every few moments she would stop and rub her long bony hands together, and laugh, as she looked at the transformed child.

Paul slept all the afternoon, and awoke in the dusky shadow of the twilight, confused and bewildered, to find himself in a strange room with the horrible woman, sitting before a blazing fire, gazing steadily into its fantastic pictures.

At first he could not tell where he was, but in a moment he remembered all, and jumped up in the greatest excitement, saying, “How could I have slept, when the dear mother was expecting me? She will be so anxious. Oh, let me go to her! Please, good lady, let me go!”

“What do you mean,” answered the old woman. “You have no mother! you are my little servant, Crimson Tuft. I gave you that name, myself, on account of your red hair, which stands up like a crest on the top of your ugly head.”Then the child began to cry, saying, “My hair is not red, and my name is Paul, and it was my dear mother who sold you vegetables at the market this morning. Let me go home, oh! please let me go home to the dear mother.”

The child’s voice was broken with sobs, but the hard-hearted woman only laughed, “Ha! ha! it is a curious dream you have had, or are you going crazy? your hair not red! indeed! why, look in the glass yourself.”

She led him to a mirror, and there the unhappy child saw reflected the ugly wretch called Crimson Tuft, but never again the handsome little Paul.

The child was more frightened and bewildered than ever. He was sure he had left the mother that morning, in company with this horrible old woman. Every thing in the rude little home rose in his mind, yet he could not realize his own identity. Paul surely he could not see in the reflecting mirror, only the ugly little Crimson Tuft.

He raised his hands and took hold of the stiff shock of red hair that stood up· right upon his head. Oh, no! it was not Paul’s soft silken curls.

Yet there was a look about the eyes that reminded him of Paul, but even they were very different: they were the red, swollen, terror-strained eyes of Crimson Tuft.

“Are you satisfied now,” said the old woman. “It was only a dream, a queer dream that you have had, Crimson Tuft, and how funny that you should think you were an old vegetable-woman’s child. You, my servant, who have never been out of this place in your life.”

Still the child only cried the more, and entreated, “Let me go home to the mother, let me go home.”

Though he was faint from the effects of the narcotic, and from fasting for a long time, he refused food, and continued to sob, begging the old woman to let him go home, but she only answered, “you are dreaming still, or crazy.” Then she told him how sometimes people were bewitched, and did not know themselves.

“Still, I am Paul, let me go.” At last the woman, losing all patience, called the dwarf to beat him, if he did not stop crying and begin to eat. So terror and hunger at last conquered, and the little boy, choking down his sobs, sat upon a stool in silence, to eat his supper, very desolate and leaden hearted.

From that day a new era commenced in the history of the child. An era of servitude, sorrow, and tears, that washed away so far into the past the memory of his free and joyous childhood, that he began to believe what the woman so often told him, that his mind had gone astray, that he had been bewitched.

Sometimes he would stand looking long into the great mirror, at the stiff, red hairs and brown skin of poor Crimson Tuft, thinking what a beautiful myth it was, about the happy little Paul, and the dear mother. How it had stolen into his heart like a real life, and still the seÑora, as all about the house called her, said it was only a bewildering dream.

Into his eyes he would often look, saying, “Those are Paul’s eyes, but the red brows give a different expression to their sadness,” he would add, “No! no! they are not Paul’s eyes.”

Always the red hair, brown skin and sorrowful heart, “I must be only poor Crimson Tuft.”

Very often his hungry heart would cry out, “Oh, mother! mother!”

Too often the shrill voice of the old woman would be the discordant answer, sending him to some new task.

As months, then years, rolled by, the child became more accustomed to his sorrowful lot, and in many ways it grew pleasanter. He learned to talk Spanish fluently, and became very fond of the queer looking dwarf, who had frightened him so much at first. He often talked to him about his mysterious change, but of these things the dwarf would never speak, so at last Crimson Tuft ceased to mention them.

His kind-hearted friend taught him many things in leisure hours—to read, write, and solve difficult problems—so that at twelve, he was as much advanced in his studies as most boys of his age.

With the seÑora he had become quite a favorite, although at first, for a long time, he had only menial service to perform, there came a change. One day she heard him reading aloud to the dwarf, and was so much delighted with his distinct enunciation, and fine rendition of what happened to be a favorite author, that she called him to her private library, and talked a long time in a way she had never before addressed him.

“He is a boy of quick mind,” thought she, “and may be more than an ordinary servant to me. He is just what I shall need in my troublesome Mexican affairs. I must train him to his work.”

From that day he used to sit hours in the library reading to her, and often she gave him long papers to copy, which he was soon able to do, to her entire satisfaction.

Very often she would talk to him as though he were a man, in fact the training he was receiving brought only the man’s thoughts. He had left his happy boyhood at the little stall in the market-place.

One day he found an old guitar in the attic of an out-house, which was filled with broken furniture, and many things disused and forgotten. From that hour he enjoyed a real pleasure. In a short time he picked out the chords and wove them into delicious harmonies, and then there came into his mind a rich old melody of the fatherland. It was like the memory of a happy dream, and the tears filled his eyes. Again he was happy, for every thing save the spell of the divine melody was forgotten.

Two more years glided by, and the young boy was advancing toward manhood. He was tall, and finely developed; and deep within his dreamy eyes slept the wonderful magnetic charm. Still the brown skin and stiff hair remained, and he was only poor ugly Crimson Tuft.

In all this time he had never been outside the massive gate which was always strongly locked and barred; and though he had often entreated the dwarf, the only reply was a grave shake of the head, and a sad, compassionate look, from the odd squinting eyes of his companion, and if he persisted the dwarf would go away and leave him alone.

He had never ventured to speak to the SeÑora but once, on the subject, in years, and then her fury was so unbounded, that he feared she would tear him in pieces with her long bony fingers, which, when she was enraged, possessed the power of a vice. For a week after, she fed him on bread and water, and kept him confined in a dark room with too heavy tasks to allow him to question the mysterious past, or speculate on the uncertain future.

“Always a foolish dreamer,” she said. “I will teach you something, you, the brown-skinned Crimson Tuft.”

Yet it was all no use: the boy had his thoughts, that could not be chained. He was determined to escape.

“I will not excite suspicion; I will strive to please; and a time will come, yes, the time will come, when I shall know all.”

Thus in striving to lull the suspicions of the Argus-eyed woman to sleep, he grew into great favor, and became indispensable to her.

“He can do so many things that no one else can do,” she would say to herself, “but those great luminous eyes torment me. If they too could be changed. But that is beyond my power. Would I could make them dull leaden and red as his flaming crimson tuft. He is useful, very useful, but there are times, with all his quiet seeming, when I think he suspects me. Dare I trust him? that is the question.”

Here the old woman would fall into long fits of musing, and gaze into the glowing embers, till they faded into dead ashes.

One morning the old woman called Crimson Tuft to her, saying: “I am going away, to be gone for some days, and I want you to copy these papers for me. They are the deeds and other valuable papers of my property in Mexico, which you will see is very great. Let the copies be made with great distinctness, for these duplicates may be required. You see I am cautious, and trust you very much, very much.”

A look of suspicion crossed her sharp wizen face; but in the ugly brown countenance she could detect nothing but truth and sincerity.

“I can do no better,” she thought, but aloud she added, “the dwarf knows all and will see to the safety of these and every thing. If one of them is lost it would bring no end of trouble, and you would have your share.” With an ominous shake of the head, the old seÑora rose and left Crimson Tuft bending over the yellowed parchment, that was of the most inestimable value to her.

About noon she left the house, with the dwarf following her to the gate, which, when she had passed he barred more securely than ever.

For some days Crimson Tuft worked diligently over the papers. There were deeds of haciendas and mines, mortgages, and grants of land, and many long, intricate pages of law papers. Really to copy all these was a task, and Crimson Tuft was filled with amazement at the greatness of the old seÑora’s possessions.

At last they were all finished, and locked up by the dwarf in the iron-bound oaken chest, and that again was locked in the great closet, and the dwarf carried the key. So it was very secure.

Still the old seÑora did not return! “Now the time has come,” thought Crimson Tuft, “I must escape.” But that was easier planned than done. Everywhere the dwarf followed him, and when Crimson Tuft grew angry he laid his heavy hand upon his arm, saying, “from the first I have loved you, boy,—believe me it will all be well—only wait a little longer.”

Then Crimson Tuft took his hard, honest hand, saying, “you alone have loved me, and for your sake I will wait, but not long, I can not—do not ask it.”One evening, about a week after this, the bell rang, and the seÑora entered, followed by a most beautiful little maiden about twelve years of age.

She was dressed in mourning, with a black shawl about her head; her long glossy hair hung carelessly over her graceful shoulders; her complexion was a clear olive, and her skin soft and smooth as satin; while her large, dark eyes had a depth as of the mystic sea, and a pure clear look as of heaven.

They were more beautiful than any thing Crimson Tuft had ever seen, and some how they startled him. It was not like the old vision, yet it touched him more deeply—this was of the present—that of the past.

“This is my only granddaughter,” said the old woman to the dwarf and Crimson Tuft. Both bowed very low to the pretty seÑorita. They were such a queer-looking pair, that she clapped her dainty little hands together laughing in a pure ringing tone, clear as the notes of a silver bell.

Poor Crimson Tuft was very much confused, for to him the young Donna Leota was the first dream of beauty that had kindled the dawning fire of manhood in his heart, and he was ready to bow down and kiss her foot-prints in the sand.

Strange to say, the little Leota swayed the grandmother as absolutely as she had ruled the dwarf and Crimson Tuft, but in one respect the old woman was resolute, the heavy gate was locked as securely upon Leota as upon the other inmates of the mansion, and no persuasion could induce her to change in this regard.

Leota was passionately fond of music, and played the harp very sweetly.

Once in the still hours of night, she was awakened by the notes of her own harp vibrating in the most exquisite harmony.

She was filled with delight though she trembled with fear, for she was quite sure there was no one in the house who knew any thing of music but herself, yet the chords were swept as by a master’s hand.

She lay motionless until the last note died away, and it was long before she fell asleep, for the spell of the rich melodies still floated through the air around her. In the morning she spoke of it, but no one could explain the mystery. Again and again, in the silent hours came the rich melody, not old familiar airs, but the exquisite improvisations of genius.

One night, when the golden moon was casting its soft amber light over land and sea, and the enchanted harp sending forth its entrancing strains, Leota rose softly from her couch, and summoning all her courage, determined herself to solve the mystery. She glided quietly along the passage-way to the large glass door of the parlor, and there she saw Crimson Tuft bending fondly over the harp, and calling out the bewildering melody that she had thought could be born only of mystical enchantment. The imagination of the young girl was so vivid that she was easily prepared for things supernatural, but to see poor brown Crimson Tuft, the great magician, he, the slave, of whom she thought only to laugh at—this was stranger than all.

The soft moonlight fell full upon his face, and his large luminous eyes were dewy with the spirit of the rich melody. With the rare beauty that was all their own, they almost redeemed the brown skin and flaming hair from positive ugliness. Leota stood entranced till the last note died out of the thrilled chords of the trembling harp, then, as she turned to go, the rustling of her robe caused Crimson Tuft to raise his eyes, and they fell full upon her face, to him at least the most beautiful face in the world. He was covered with deep confusion. Over his redeeming eyes fell the heavy red lashes, and the ugly brows contracted.

She, his rare divinity, had seen him play, and heard how the notes flowed from his own heart, through the sympathizing harp-strings that thrilled with his devotion to her, which would last all his life long.

Leota was greatly bewildered, and as she stole away to her own room, strange thoughts chased themselves through her mind. Not one word had been spoken, but every thing had changed. Crimson Tuft was no longer only the ugly servant of her grandmother, but he was Crimson Tuft of the mystery.

There was something interesting in that; besides, shut up in those high walls, with only the old grandmother for company, and little amusement, one must think a great deal. So Leota had her thoughts. Crimson Tuft had wonderful eyes. She had found that out, and it was a great deal there in that dull place.

She wished to be in Mexico again, where the most beautiful flowers bloom, and the delicious fruit grows ripe on the broad-leafed trees. Yet she did not like to think she would never see the beautiful eyes again. “But one must not think too much of a servant,” she would say to herself. “She was of good blood, and that would not do, yet one must treat inferiors kindly.” Really it was difficult to tell what one must do. So, all in a maze, she fell asleep, and dreamed of the most radiant eyes, which were Crimson Tuft’s, and the handsomest face, which surely was not Crimson Tuft’s.

The morning dawned clear and bright, as Crimson Tuft arose and began the duties of the day. Though he was advanced to the post of private secretary, the old seÑora had left him some tasks in the early part of the day that would prevent him from forgetting his position as a servant.

First he swept and dusted the parlor and halls. This had always been his work, and no one else could please the seÑora so well. As he dusted the seÑorita’s harp a flash of indignation filled his heart. He was only a servant, the ugly Crimson Tuft, and she the most beautiful maiden, the divinity of his soul. There was a great difference, yet he felt himself a man, and he would conquer fate in the end, even with his ugly Crimson Tuft. This was what he thought.

When Leota appeared she said nothing of her discovery, but when she spoke to him it was in a different tone from formerly. The mystery of the enchanted harp was over, but the greater mystery had begun.

The wonderful eyes acted as a talisman upon her heart, and though she strove against it, she found herself forgetting Crimson Tuft’s position, his ugly brown skin and red hair.

One glance of his beaming eyes would set her warm blood dancing through her veins till her neck and brow were a soft rose-tint, and this was in no way pleasant to the proud little maiden.

The next night Crimson Tuft did not touch the harp, and in the morning the Donna Leota passed him at his work with a haughty toss of her dainty head, but with a quiver in her voice she said, “Crimson Tuft, play when you like, the music pleases me.”

After that Crimson Tuft would always play at twilight, and even the old grandmother was touched by the magical spell of his genius.

Every year the old woman grew more infirm, till she could not even walk from room to room without leaning upon her staff. At times her temper was terrible, and nothing but the soft touch of Leota’s hand could calm her. She loved with all her strong hard nature the young maiden who daily was growing to womanhood crowned with surpassing beauty.

She was getting very old. With an iron will she resisted the pitiless hand of time, but she could not stay it. Her long hands became more bony and angular, her eyes more red and bleared, and her voice more cracked and shrill; yet she seemed to be looking forward to a long life, and was more hard and grasping than ever. It was only Leota that she loved more than gold.

One night Crimson Tuft had a curious dream. He thought, as he lay half sleeping and half waking, dreaming delightful but impossible things, that the old woman came in softly and poured something upon his head, and that when he started, she held a sponge to his nose, until he sank back powerless. He seemed to inhale something sweet and fragrant. It was very pleasant and soothing: that was all he could remember. In the morning, he felt heavy and drowsy, his head ached, but he roused himself, rose and dressed as usual. When he looked in the glass he saw that his hair was redder, and his skin a deeper brown than ever. Memories and a strange suspicion flashed over his mind.

Far back in the years he remembered dimly a little boy, named Paul, a fair child, whom he had been taught to believe a dream. There was a mystery. Could she have changed Paul to Crimson Tuft in a night?

After this, Crimson Tuft became more thoughtful than ever. There was a mystery to solve, and he would devote all his energies to it. He was eighteen years old, a very intelligent young man, but entirely unacquainted with the world. He had yet much to learn.

One day the old woman called him to her, and looked, in her curious way, at him for a long time. “Crimson Tuft,” she said, “you are my servant, but I have given you great advantages, so that you are as well educated as many a rich man’s son. But that is not all; I wish to make your fortune.”

Then the old woman fell into a deep study, and Crimson Tuft stood waiting and wondering what would come next.

At length he grew tired. “SeÑora,” he said, “you wanted to speak with me.”

She gave a sudden start as he spoke. “Oh! yes,” she replied, “but I had forgotten you. You are my servant, and have been so always.”

“Always?” asked Crimson Tuft.

A dark frown passed over the old woman’s face, and Crimson Tuft regretted his folly. He was very anxious to hear what she had to say to him. There might be some hope of relief. But again she was silent; and, worse than all, she seemed displeased.

The Donna Leota passed the open window, singing lightly a pretty Spanish air, and the shadows began to clear away from the clouded brow.

“Excuse me, seÑora,” said Crimson Tuft, softly. “If in some way I can serve you, I shall be only too happy.” He, too, had heard the soothing song.

“Crimson Tuft,” she replied, “I am not now so strong as I was twenty good years ago, and I want some one near me whom I can trust, for I have affairs that must be attended to now—some one who will not cheat me out of my gold. I have looked carefully about, and can see no one but you—you, whom I have trained, educated, and cared for so many years. The world is so ungrateful and wicked! Even you, who owe every thing to me, might rob me—me, an old woman. It would be a wicked thing—a great crime!”

The red, eager eyes of the old woman were fastened upon the face of the young man, and with all her shrewdness she tried to read him. Her pinched features grew sharper, and her voice shrill as the whistling wind. She grasped her staff, and hobbled across the room several times, in an excited manner.

“You are such a curious, ugly fellow. What have you to hope for in the world, save from me? But, if you are faithful, I will advance you. But I can as easily punish as reward.”

The red blood flushed even the brown cheek of the boy, for he was painfully conscious of his extreme ugliness, and he thought sadly of the Donna Leota.

“Listen, boy,” continued the old woman. “There is a great world beyond these walls. Can I trust you to go away over the waters with me? Remember all I promise you, and be faithful.”

She looked steadfastly into the luminous eyes of Crimson Tuft, that dilated with pleasurable exultation. She was evidently satisfied with the truth and sincerity she saw beaming there, for she proceeded:—

“I must go again to Mexico, but not alone. The Donna Leota will accompany me, for in the years to come I can not be separated from her. And you must go, as I shall need you. I am very rich, and must trust you with a great secret; but I have studied you well.”

“SeÑora,” said Crimson Tuft, eagerly, “I will be true to you; you shall never regret.”

“Swear it!” she said, fiercely.

So the young boy knelt, and pressed the good book to his lips, repeating after her a most solemn oath, to serve her faithfully, and keep sacred the great secret, which was to be revealed to Leota only, in case of the grandmother’s death.“Now,” she said, “I am weary. To-morrow I will tell you all.” And she leaned back in the arm-chair, and shaded her eyes with her fan. Crimson Tuft went out, with his heart beating wild in a tumult of conflicting emotions.

On the morrow, again she called him to the library, and locked the door.

“I have made my will,” she said, “and you are handsomely provided for, in consideration of your proving faithful to the trust I repose in you. Besides this, while I live, you shall never want for gold. Is it all fully understood?”

Then Crimson Tuft said, “It is understood, seÑora, fully.” And she took from her desk a carefully sealed paper, which she wrapped in sheep-skin, and, again sealing it, gave it to the boy. “This paper,” she said, “describes the exact spot where a great treasure is hidden upon my hacienda, near the City of Mexico. There is no chance of your gaining this for yourself for there are two other persons living who have similar papers; indeed, precautions, that I shall not tell you of, have been taken, so that it must fall to the Donna Leota at last, for she is the only true heiress. You see I am cautious, very cautious,” she added, the old look of suspicion rising in her face.

From this day Crimson Tuft was her chief adviser. He and the dwarf made all preparations for the journey. In about a week all was ready, and they went to San Francisco in a carriage, which drove immediately down to the steamer, and they were soon comfortably settled on board.

“Now,” said Crimson Tuft, “there is still time, and I can walk about the city for half an hour.” But the seÑora grew excited, and exclaimed, “No! no! you might get lost; remember, you are a stranger.” And the Donna Leota said, softly, “Surely, you will not go away!”

So the dwarf performed all the commissions, and for an hour the seÑora was absent; but, before leaving, she had said to Crimson Tuft, “I leave the Donna Leota in your care.”

At length the ship sailed. Then came the long, sluggish, dreamy days at sea. Crimson Tuft and Leota were often together upon the deck, for the old seÑora would not allow her there alone. What golden days they were to the poor Crimson Tuft. More and more he was growing to love the pretty young seÑorita, and she could not resist the powerful spell of his luminous eyes.

One night she rushed wildly through the saloon to his state-room. The grandmother had been taken suddenly very ill, and must see Crimson Tuft.She breathed with great difficulty, and her words came low and broken: “If I live to reach Mexico, you will not need this paper; but I am old,” she added, bitterly, “and the old must die.”

With great pain she went on: “If I should not live to reach the hacienda, you will see the child has her own. Dig up the treasure yourself, and do not defraud her of one single gold piece, or the curse of a dying woman will follow you, even from the darkness of the grave.” Then again Crimson Tuft promised, and, taking the paper, left her alone with “the child,” as she still fondly called the Donna Leota.

This attack passed away, but another soon followed, and again Crimson Tuft was summoned to her side. Her glazed eye brightened as she saw him. “Remember,” was all she could say, and again he made the solemn promise. It was the third and last time. With the old seÑora all was now over.

Leota trembled with fear, and wept bitterly. The grandmother had loved her, and now there was no one left, only Crimson Tuft, who sat by her side all through the silent hours.

The next evening, at sunset, the old seÑora was buried in the sea.

No one wept but the beautiful young maiden, as the steamer went on, leaving in its wake the cold, lifeless body, wrapped in its shroud of sparkling waters.

At length the good ship arrived safely in Mexico, and Crimson Tuft took the proud young heiress to the hacienda, where a crowd of friends and retainers awaited her.

The will was opened, and there was a large legacy left to Crimson Tuft. But it was as nothing to him. With so much ugliness, what had he to hope for!In the last paper the seÑora had handed him, there was a still fuller description of the spot where the treasure was hidden, and a night appointed for him to seek it. It was the eighteenth birthnight of the Donna Leota. Till then, she was to be placed in a convent, and Crimson Tuft was to have the best tutors in the City of Mexico. This would make a man of him.

So the young people were separated for a time, but the two years soon rolled by, and Crimson Tuft returned to the hacienda with his papers.

What a change there was in him. His brown, dark face had grown every day more fair, and his stiff red hair more soft and silky, and of a rich brown color. It was really wonderful. The young man was transformed, day by day, from the ugly Crimson Tuft to the handsome Paul.

The Donna Leota had become the beautiful woman that her childhood promised, and when she met Paul after the two years of separation, she felt that the great mystery was solved, and knew that she could never love any one else. So they were betrothed, and she was to be made his wife on her eighteenth birthday.

At the appointed time, Paul sought and found the great treasure that had been hidden for so long. There were immense iron pots, full of shining gold pieces, that had been hidden during one of the many Mexican revolutions. Thus it was found that the Donna Leota was the richest maiden in all Mexico, and she had many suitors among the wealthy Spanish hidalgoes; but she cared only for Paul, for the spell of the wonderful eyes, which had been Crimson Tuft’s, was upon her.

At last, the joyous wedding-day came, and every one said, “What a tall, handsome seÑor is the bridegroom, and how very lovely the bride. The sun shines upon them and it will be a happy marriage.”

Soon after, they went to San Francisco, and Paul felt the old dream returning.

One day, as he walked through the market-place, he came to a vegetable stand. Behind it sat a sorrowful woman, with a sad, mild face, that woke the sleeping memories of his heart. “Mother!” he exclaimed, with a thrill of tenderness in his voice that raised the bowed head of the lonely one. She gave one look into the eyes that, once seen, could never be forgotten, and cried, “Paul! my son, my son!” and opening her arms, received upon her bosom the head of her long lost treasure.

How she wept, and smiled, and pressed him to her heart; then held him off, that she might gaze upon the dear handsome face.

Then they went home to the father, who was old and sick. He had lost strength and heart years ago, and they were very poor. “He has never held up his head,” so the mother said, “since our boy was taken from us.”

But that was all over; the lost was found; poverty, sorrow, and sickness fled with his presence.

He took the old father and mother home to Leota, who received them into her own heart; for, were they not his parents and hers?

At first the old vegetable woman stood a little in awe of her high-born daughter, but that soon melted away in the warmth of the dainty little SeÑora’s affection; and the father, mother, son, and daughter, lived all their lives together, a happy family, united in heart and mind by the silken bonds of a true, earnest affection.