The Rose Dawn/Chapter 2

by Stewart Edward White

 

CHAPTER II

I

IN SPITE of the festivities of the day before, the Colonel was up betimes. He liked the early morning and was never late abed; but to-day he had a duty to perform, a self-imposed duty that twice a week took him to town. Without breakfast he picked up his hat, kissed the bustling Allie, and took his stately way down toward the stables. The hat he picked up was not his customary flat brimmed Stetson. It was a silk hat of some queer vintage, also flat brimmed, very straight in the crown, a typical old "stove pipe." By it everybody from dogs and children up knew that the Colonel was going to drive to town.

He entered the stable and looked around, experiencing the same warm subconscious satisfaction in his surroundings as when he looked up through his Cathedral Oaks. It was a beautiful stable, high and clean, well lighted. The woodwork was all brightly varnished. Ornamental designs in straw and grain heads were laid cunningly above the doors; fancy tufts of the same material bound with red tape ornamented the tops of the posts between stalls. The drinking troughs were of white enamel. A huge cabinet with sliding glass panels and lined with red felt contained the well oiled harnesses with polished metal. Saddles were neatly arranged on trees projecting from the walls. Over each box-stall had been screwed a brass plate showing the name of the occupant.

This occupied one wing. The high central part of the stables was the carriage room with various equipages. Its floor was covered lightly with sand on which engaging patterns had been marked with a broom. Here two Mexicans were engaged in harnessing a fine pair of chestnuts to a light wagon. The other wing was the cow stable. Its arrangements were slightly different, but it possessed the same ornaments, the same sweet cleanliness, and the same brass plates over the milking stalls showing the names of the cows. The latter were in pasture at this time of day, of course; but the bull was in a small corral built around a tree. That was his habitual abiding place, a fine stocky animal, with a curled front like Jove. He also had a brass plate which was attached to the tree. It bore the name Brigham Young, and the names over the cowstalls were those of the Mormon prophet's favourite wives. This was the Colonel's little joke at which Allie always pretended to be greatly scandalized.

By now the team was hitched and ready. The Colonel lifted the covers of two big wicker hampers in the wagon body, peered within, then mounted the seat and drove off down the palm-bordered road. The Mexicans wished him a vaya con dios. As he passed the kitchen door Sing Toy pretended to empty ashes in order to hurl at him an admonition. Allie waved her handkerchief. The Colonel felt particularly well and happy. It was a fine morning without fog, which of course meant heat later; but now the air was fresh and cool. The horses shied playfully toward each other, pricking their ears.

At the corner where the palm drive turned into the Camino Real, Daphne sat on the top rail of the fence. She was dressed to-day in a plain wash frock of blue and a wide straw hat, but her hair was as unruly and her legs as leggy as ever. At sight of her the Colonel pulled up at once and set the brakes. Every California vehicle of those days, no matter how light, had brakes.

Daphne came between the wheels and extended her hand. "Good morning, Puss!" cried the Colonel, fumbling absent-mindedly in his pocket to produce a peppermint lozenge.

"Now, godpapa! At this time of the morning! Without breakfast!" she reproved him.

"I beg your pardon, my dear. And without doubt you meant to add 'at my age'." He leaned over the back of the seat and raised the cover of the nearest hamper. "By way of amends permit me to offer the very first of my nosegays."

Daphne took the quaint little bouquet.

"Thank you. And now move over, for I am going in to have breakfast with you."

They drove on down the white road with the long shadows across it, and into town and the grounds of the Fremont Hôtel. Here three bellboys rushed out at sight of them. One took charge of the team, while the other two carried the hampers into the hotel. Down the street the bland faced clock on the Clock Building showed at seven twenty.

The Colonel and Daphne followed the hampers across the broad high veranda, through the cool high office with the grouped easy chairs and the coco matting floors, down a long narrow hall with windows on both sides of it, and so to a pair of frosted doors flanked by hatracks. The frosted doors said closed most uncompromisingly, but they yielded to the Colonel's touch. They were in the dining room.

It was a long, wide, lofty, airy apartment, with many narrow, high windows looking out into foliage. A score of black-clad waitresses stood upright among the snowy tables awaiting the seven-thirty hour of official opening. By the frosted door was an elderly rather obese negro with gray wool. The latter had a full dress suit, white gloves, a ramrod down his neck and the self-contained dignity of a mud-turtle. When he moved it was as though a fanfare of trumpets had been heard. He was the headwaiter, and a very good one. In that simple age the sole requirements of a headwaiter were presence, dignity, side. The fact that a duke ushers you in with respect implies that you are several pegs above a duke, does it not?

The bellboys deposited the hampers by a centrally placed table and withdrew. The Colonel and Daphne seated themselves and attacked the first course of the breakfast that was promptly brought them. After a few moments the coloured person threw wide the portals—that is the only way to describe it. And shortly appeared the first comers to the morning meal: a prosperous but plain looking citizen and his mouse-like wife.

Instantly the Colonel was afoot. He dived into his hampers and came forth with another of the nosegays and a pair of fine oranges. With these he approached the guests.

"Good morning; good morning!" he greeted them, genially. "I trust you have slept well."

Somewhat surprised they stammered back a sort of response.

"I want you to try these oranges," the Colonel swept on. "They are of exceptionally fine stock—budded direct from the original Bahia trees. And, madam, permit me to offer you a little sample of our California flowers to greet you this morning."

And the Colonel bowed most gallantly and withdrew. A moment later the tourists might have been observed making low-toned inquiries of the waitress.

But now the guests were arriving frequently. The Colonel was very busy with his fruit and his bouquets. The latter he presented only to the ladies. To almost everybody he and his bi-weekly custom were well known. Then people came west to spend the winter, and settled down in one place. The season was now nearly over as the pleasantest time of the year approached! Colonel Peyton was among old acquaintances, and he thoroughly enjoyed himself. With each he had time for only a word or so, but he managed always to flatter the ladies!

"You are a bad old man!" said one white haired and stately dowager, "and I am half-minded to make you take back your nosegay!"

"The blossoms are blameless, at least," quoth the Colonel, "why punish them?"

At the round table in the middle of the room reserved for unattached men, a discontented looking flashily dressed new-comer expressed his surprise at the whole performance, wondering among other things why the Colonel did it or was permitted to do it.

"Well," drawled a lank Middle-Westerner with a toothpick. "He's allowed to because he owns this hotel."

"Oh, I see," sneered the first speaker. "Slick advertising, eh?"

It might have been good advertising, but any one watching the Colonel would have realized that he was enjoying it thoroughly. His face beamed, his eyes glowed, his old-fashioned manners became more elaborate, his wit and compliments more spontaneous. He sailed on a flood tide of goodfeeling. The Middle-Westerner expressed something of this.

"Lemme tell you, he don't have to advertise this hotel. Why should he? There's no competition."

"There's the San Antonio down the street."

"Colonel Peyton owns that, too."

"Then why the hell all this monkey-doodle business?"

"Because he likes it. If you can understand that!"

The tourist turned to survey the last speaker, the indignant waitress.

"Hullo, sister," he said coolly. "Who let you in this?"

About half past eight the rush slackened and the Colonel, glowing with delight, was enabled to return to the table where Daphne sat and finish his breakfast.

"I tell you, Puss," he cried, "where would they find another place in the world with a sun and sky like this! Think of it back East where they came from! Snow, ice, wind! Cannot understand why anybody should want to live there."

Truth to tell a good many of his guests were beginning vaguely to wonder about that themselves, and other hotel men's guests all over Southern California. Railroad travel across the plains was still a good deal of an adventure, nor to be lightly undertaken. People settled down for a week. They got acquainted with everybody else on the train, and visited back and forth, and even got up charades and entertainments. Every party had an elaborate hamper with tin compartments in which was great store of bread and rolls and chicken and other delicacies. Three or four times a day the tram stopped out in the middle of nowhere and the passengers ran about the landscape to get the kinks out of their legs. At the end of a half hour the whistle was blown summoning them back. Buffalo were still to be seen in great numbers—indeed, not infrequently the engine had to stop to let herds of them across the tracks—and other wild animals, and wilder men. After the long, strange cold journey the tepid air, smiling landscape, and brooding mountains of California were inexpressibly grateful. The newcomer saw oranges for the first time—and was invited in to pick all he wanted to eat; and free flowers anywhere for the asking; and interestingly strange orientals. He looked out in the freshness of morning on a riot of white roses climbing over the roof below his hotel window, and across palms and pepper trees and orange groves to distant, azure, snow-capped mountains. He breathed the soft caressing air laden with perfume. His ears were filled with the buzzing of bees and humming birds, the warblings of many songsters. His eyes drank in the sunpatched world before him. He remembered that snow and ice and wind mentioned by the Colonel. And he lifted up his spirit in the sentiment expressed aloud by one tourist.

"Why should anybody die out here? They'll never get any nearer to heaven!"

Since the journey was long, short visits were unknown. People came in December and stayed through until June at least. By that time the country had them. They returned to their homes as insufferable nuisances. The exceeding pleasantness of Southern California was a new thing: it had not been described and over-described and advertised and made most of. The tourist had the intense proselyting zeal of one who discovers something, and has something new to tell. The term "California Liar" became current about this time. It was a misnomer. The "California Liar" was generally some Easterner or Middle-Westerner trying to translate super-enthusiasm into his native dialect.

Generally he returned the following winter and the next, until he became an habitué—provided he had the means and the leisure. If he had not these, he did one of two things: either he continued where he was and was either ignored or killed off by exasperated neighbours; or else he sold out and moved to his discovered heaven. There were a great many of the latter class; and more were coming every year. They were buying ten, twenty, forty acres and making themselves homes. Incidentally they were planting things, more or less as amusement or to keep occupied; and, astonishingly, some of them were making money. The two parent trees of Bahia navel oranges had budded thousands of old seedling stock. People were discovering irrigation. The land was stirring from its long sleep.

A small, dapper, quick-moving man entered the dining room and made his way directly to the Colonel's table. This was Watson, manager of the hotel. He carried a sheaf of papers which he deployed and on which he proceeded to comment in a rapid-fire sort of fashion. The Colonel listened, his eyes roving here and there about the dining room. Apparently he was listening with only half his mind, for he constantly threw in comments utterly irrevelant to the matters in hand.

"I wish you would step down for a moment and I will show you what I mean. The arrangements are becoming totally inadequate; and yet I hate with the present ledger showing to undertake more expense."

"I shall be delighted to do so, but not this morning," the Colonel answered him. "If the arrangements are not adequate, we must make them so. That goes without saying. Can't do things without things to do them with!"

"But, Colonel, the expense seems——"

"Pardon, it isn't a matter of expense. It's a matter of whether we've got to have them or not—don't you see? Have them installed, by all means, if you are fully of the opinion that we cannot get on without them."

"I wouldn't hesitate for a moment," worried the little manager, "if it weren't for the fact that our last statement——"

"Oh, I see!" beamed the Colonel, "why did you beat around the bush, Watson. It's ready money. Why didn't you say so? How much do you need?"

"Here is the statement," said the manager, "it is not as encouraging as I should like to have had it. If you will permit me to run over the items with you, I think I can explain——"

"I should be delighted to have you do so, Watson, and I will make it a point to drop into your office for that express purpose," said the Colonel, folding the statement and thrusting it into his inner pocket, "but not just at present. I haven't time. But I will drop in at the bank and make arrangements with Mr. Mills. Rest easy on that."

He arose from the table and held out his hand to the perplexed little manager.

"Don't worry, Watson," he said kindly. "If we have run behind a trifle lately, I can understand. There are undoubtedly a great many things to be considered."

He bowed with courtly politeness to the girl who had waited on him, looked vaguely about him for Daphne, who had long since disappeared, and took his way out of the dining room, bowing right and left as he went. The wonderful negro held open the frosted doors—again "closed," as it was after nine o'clock. He alone of all those present managed to play up.

The pressure of the Colonel's affairs, that had prevented his giving time to Watson's explanations, seemed to lift somewhat when he had gained the wide, low, rail-less veranda. It was now well occupied. Ladies sat in deep rocking chairs; men walked up and down, or leaned over the ladies, or lounged smoking against the big square pillars. Children raced back and forth. It was approaching the hour of the daily ride. Practically all those not actually on the verge of the bedridden were preparing to sally forth on horseback. Everybody rode horseback, whether they knew how or not. It was in the air. Grandmothers who had never seen a sawhorse tried it on. The tiniest children, their legs sticking straight out across the backs of gentle beasts went forth in coveys under charge of steady old Spaniards. There were all degrees of skill, and there were all types of costume. The women rode side saddle and were encumbered with long skirts which they hooked up when afoot. The men used the stock saddle with high horns, with long stirrups hanging straight under the body, with flapping tapaderos—stirrup covers—that made a gay sound when they loped. Wide portable horseblocks with little nights of steps stood around for those to whom their own horses appeared like two-story buildings, however small the other fellow's horse might look. Some of the young ladies, however, were able by placing their feet in the cupped hands of their cavaliers to spring neatly into their saddles from the ground; and some of the said cavaliers loved to vault to their seats without touching stirrup at all. There was a great deal of clanking about, for all of the younger men and most of the older wore the huge loose-fitting big rowelled Spanish spurs that dragged and rattled on the floor.

The Spanish lads from the stables were continually trotting up, each leading four or five saddle horses which they tied to the iron rails. The names of the riders had been written on cards attached to the pommels. Old Patterson rode solemnly up with his string. They were noted as being the gentlest and fattest horses in town. Old Patterson hired them and himself all together in one flock, and would not hire them otherwsie. He was a solemn person with a large beard and a silver whistle. When he blew the latter the riders must instantly pull down to a walk from the very gentle lope. Patterson's horses, it is said, had never yet sweat in their long and useful lives. His convoy was naturally affected by the infants, the beginners and the ultra timid. These unfortunates were looked down upon with derision by other youngsters, who delighted in dashing madly by or through, to old Patterson's monumental indignation. Don Enrique also made his usual spectacular entry. Don Enrique was a very impressive looking elderly Spaniard, also with a large beard. He was ornamental, and therefore had been asked to lead so many parades and fiestas that they had ended by going to his head. He was never quite happy unless he was showing off. To this end he had spent most of his substance on a wonderful saddle and bridle. There was marvellously involved carved leather work, and about twenty pounds of silver in corners, buttons and conchas, and I don't know what all else. The Don had a very good horse and was an excellent horseman. He came dashing at a dead run through the gates headed at full speed toward the veranda until it seemed he would leap through the crowd, but pulled up within three feet. The horse fairly sat on its haunches and slid. A fine spray of gravel fanned out in front. Some women shrieked softly. Don Enrique, oblivious to all mundane affairs, his swarthy, handsome countenance set in a far off frown, swung from the saddle with one magnificent motion, threw the reins over his horse's head with another, and stalked clanking and unseeing across the veranda and into the office. The horse, trained to stand "tied to the ground," rolled his bit musically and stared straight ahead with a lofty air of conscious virtue.

Colonel Peyton watched this lively scene, his hands beneath his coat tails. Daphne appeared and stood beside him. After a time Kenneth Boyd came out, greeting them with a flash of his attractive smile.

"I suppose you are going riding?" observed the Colonel genially.

"No sir, not this morning."

"But you do ride, I suppose?"

"I've ridden under English masters since I was seven years old," rejoined Kenneth, a little touched in his young pride that he should be even half-doubted of this manly accomplishment. Then he caught Daphne's cool level look and turned away flushing hotly. It was a perfectly respectful look, such as a gangle-legged child should give a glorious youth, but there was something in its depths Kenneth did not like. It was something too old for her! he told himself.

"You should have a horse of your own," the Colonel was saying kindly. "That is the only way to get satisfaction. The livery horses are very fair, but they are ridden by everybody, and they are ridden too much. You can buy horses here very cheap. Indeed, it is much like old days still. Then, you know, if you borrowed an outfit they did not much care whether you returned the horse or not provided you returned the saddle and bridle." He laughed contagiously at his little joke.

"How much do you suppose I could buy a horse for?" inquired Kenneth, interested.

"Twenty-five dollars," replied the Colonel, also getting interested, "and they'd take care of him for you for ten dollars a month. If you decided to get one, I might suggest something."

"Mr. Boyd would not want to ride one of our range horses," put in Daphne. Her tone was absolutely candid, but Kenneth flushed again. "They would hardly interest anybody who had taken lessons and could really ride. He ought to have something like Gipsy."

"Puss, you're an extravagant little piece," said the Colonel. "Do you realize that Gipsy is a Kentucky mare? She's a fine animal, too fine to buy and sell again in a month or two. Our range horses are very good, if you pick them right."

"I was just thinking of what Mr. Boyd said about his riding masters," said Daphne meekly.

At this moment a group loped up to the veranda and drew rein. It was led by a very dashing figure in a bottle green habit topped by a little forward-tilted chip hat. Kenneth, in relief, recognized Dora Stanley; and, with a murmured word of farewell to the Colonel, hastened to the edge of the veranda. That Brainerd kid was certainly fresh! A regular little brat, Kenneth decided resentfully.

"Well, Puss," said the Colonel. "I suppose we must be getting along, if we are to meet the boat."

"I want to see Mrs. Fortney," said Daphne. "I don't believe I'll go to the boat. Pick me up, please, on your way back."

"This is desertion!" cried the Colonel, in mock dismay.

"Take somebody else with you," suggested Daphne unmoved, "take the square jolly man: he looks like good company."

So it happened that Patrick Boyd joined the Colonel and they drove away together behind the chestnuts.

"The ship gets in this morning, and I have to be here," explained the Colonel, "—to see about the tourists and all such matters. If you just want to potter about—if you have nothing especial to do——"

They drove out of the hotel grounds, but instead of turning down the main street the Colonel tooled the chestnuts carefully on a slant across the high projecting ridges of the street car rails and so to a pepper-shaded side street. The light vehicle swayed and pitched over the metals, so that Boyd had fairly to hold on.

"I should think the town would make the company grade those things down," he growled, "they're liable to take off a wheel."

"Oh, it's a sort of makeshift affair," replied the Colonel easily. "Have you seen it?"

"Yes, I've seen it—and tried it."

"You'll appreciate the story they tell about it, then. They say a stranger saw it going down the street one day, and boarded it. 'Say', said he to the driver, 'I no sabe how this thing goes. Seems to slide along all by itself.' The driver looked over the dashboard. 'Hanged if those mules haven't crawled under the car again,' he said." The Colonel laughed heartily at this, one of this three favourite stories. Boyd laughed too, but could not forbear adding a word to his first criticism.

"Just the same I should think your Common Council would force them to put these tracks in some sort of shape."

"I suppose they will, some day," rejoined the Colonel, cheerfully. "We are sort of used to it."

"Where are we going over here?" asked Boyd, "I thought you said we were going to meet the ship."

"Plenty of time," replied the Colonel. "Here we are."

He drew rein beneath some wide overarching peppers before a picket fence. The sidewalks in this part of town—for that matter in any part of town off the main street—were of hard earth. Behind the picket fence was a small, white one-storied house of the commonplace box architecture of the early 'eighties. It was glorified, however, by a riot of bright flowers, growing in the lavish profusion that only Southern California can show. The Colonel fumbled in one of his hampers—which had been replaced—captured a flat basket of oranges lurking in its apparently inexhaustible depths, and pushed inside the fence. His tall figure with its "stove pipe" hat seemed to stoop in order to enter the tiny house. He did not ring or knock, but entered the sitting room, which he found empty. Thence he proceeded to explore, prowling about the premises, until at length in a little shed back of the kitchen he found a young woman in an enveloping apron, her hair covered by a mob cap, her sleeves rolled up, busy at a wash tub. She flushed a little when she saw the Colonel. The latter was quite unconscious and unembarrassed, however. He perched his long form on a work bench, thrust back his tall hat.

"So here you are," he cried, cheerfully, "looking fresh as a rose! I brought you a few oranges, my dear."

He perched, swinging one leg, for a few moments, chatting; then bade farewell and rejoined Boyd.

"Nice little couple, there," he told the latter as he took the reins. "Friends of mine. Came out from the East last year. Husband has just a touch of lungs, I think though that's just a guess. Happy as a pair of turtle doves. I like to drop in to see them. Does me good."

He turned around and headed back toward Main Street. But on the way they passed a very imposing place. It occupied a full quarter block, was planted with fine old trees, and a semi-circular driveway inside the grounds swept up to and past the house. The latter was of wood and ran greatly to peaked towers and woodwork. The boards were laid in patterns around and above the window frames, the posts and rails of the veranda were lathed into graceful bulges, the roof line bristled with vertebrae of scroll fretwork like the backbone of a fossil fish. It had stained glass, and a certain proportion of iron railings and grills, and a pair of stone lions. Indeed, it might fairly be called a mansion.

"We might see if Mrs. Stanley is home," hesitated the Colonel.

"It doesn't seem just the hour for a call," said Boyd.

"Oh, we won't call," cried the Colonel. "We'll just drop in and see her. I'd like to have you meet her. She's a very fine woman."

He turned in to the drive and hitched the chestnuts to the usual rail.

"There she is now!" he cried, and started impetuously down a gravelled walk toward a distant figure. Boyd followed slowly and a little uncomfortably. It was, as he had said, no conventional hour, and Mrs. Stanley looked to be in no conventional attire nor engaged in conventional occupation. He saw a tall gaunt figure that moved widely and freely like a man. Her skirts were quite frankly pinned around her waist, exposing serviceable coloured petticoats. She wore long gauntlets and a sunbonnet from which escaped wild gray hair. Her face was large featured. In her left hand she carried an old painter's bucket into which from time to time she deposited treasure trove found under the leaves.

But she displayed no embarrassment at being thus caught.

"How do you do, Mr. Boyd," she acknowledged the introduction in a deep voice. "Newcomer, eh? Then you don't know yet what beasts snails are. They eat everything you plant."

"Medill says quick lime——" began the Colonel.

"Medill is a fool," stated Mrs. Stanley. "The only thing that does the slightest good is ducks. And I won't have the silly quacking things about the place. Do as I do: pick 'em and put them in salt."

"Very likely you are right. Of course, I have ducks on the ranch, and that may be the reason I am never bothered," said the Colonel. "You certainly have wonderful roses. I've not seen such deep colour anywhere else."

"Then it's your own fault," boomed Mrs. Stanley. "It's a matter of nails, iron filings, old cans. Bury 'em at the roots. Anybody can do it who who will take the trouble."

"That is worth knowing, isn't it, Boyd," commented the Colonel cheerfully. "But you have one rosebud whose bloom is not due to iron filings."

"Which one is that?" demanded Mrs. Stanley, casting her commanding eye about her.

"I refer to Dora," said the Colonel, gallantry. "She has grown into a beauty."

"Oh, Dora! Yes, she has a good complexion. Nothing mysterious about it. Fresh air, wholesome food, open air exercise, no late hours. Mothers are fools. They let their children go traipsing around at all hours eating messes and then wonder they look sallow and sick. Perfect nonsense!"

"I daresay you are right," was the Colonel's comment, "of course you are: the results show for themselves. Still, young people are young—seems to me when I was that age the most blissful thing in the world was to dance the whole night through. And the dance just at dawn was the best of all. We have to allow something for the young spirit."

"Young fiddlesticks!" said Mrs. Stanley, energetically. "Just a nonsensical idea. I think the way the modern child is allowed to run wild without self control or discipline is a scandal. I do my duty by my children, and I expect them to have a sense of responsibility. I furnish them with opportunity for every healthful amusement, and give them free rein; but I do not allow them to stuff or sit up all hours."

"I daresay you are right," repeated the Colonel, "of course you are. Well, we must be going. Remember me to Dora and to Winchester. You certainly have fine roses."

"Good-bye. Glad you dropped in. Glad to have made your acquaintance, Mr. Boyd. Come again and see me."

She stooped her gaunt frame, raised a leaf, and pounced on what it concealed. "Salt dissolves 'em," she remarked to the retreating gentlemen. Boyd had not spoken a word. He felt somehow rather overridden. The Colonel did not seem to feel it. On the way to the team he commented cheerily on the various plants and trees and the cast-iron fountain of two children under an umbrella from the tip of which spouted the water. Only after the team was again under way did he revert to the subject of their hostess.

"A most remarkable woman," he repeated. "Great common sense; very firm."

"Has she a husband?" asked Boyd, with entire conviction that Mr. Stanley must long since have passed on. This proved to be the case.

"She has two children. Winchester is sixteen, and Dora about eighteen," the Colonel told him. "They have been brought up by an almost perfect regimen. They are very handsome, healthy, spirited children. Mrs. Stanley has been fully justified—up to now."

"Up to now?"

"Boyd, don't be a humbug! " admonished the Colonel cheerily. "You've been young, and you probably have an excellent memory. At the ages of sixteen and eighteen, would you have hated anything worse than being treated still as though you were twelve? And would you have wanted a more fascinating game to beat than that?"

"You think there's trouble coming in the Stanley family?"

"Oh, I wouldn't say trouble. Just a little shock, I hope. It may mean trouble, of course. I think Mrs. Stanley is making a mistake; but it is only because she doesn't realize they're grown up. Parents rarely do until something happens. There isn't any dividing line. They go on thinking them as they used to be. Then something happens. I've seen it so many times. Dora will stay out after hours at a dance; or Winchester will take a drink—some little thing that would be rather terrible in a child but nothing in a grown-up. Then everything will depend on how Mrs. Stanley takes it. Dangerous time, Boyd, dangerous time!"

He chirped to his horses; and continued:

"I think it's lucky when it happens young. I've seen it go on until a boy is in his twenties before the thing happened—before they got into the new relations. That's a pity. It's more difficult. I wish Dora would throw her slipper over the moon. I really do. Unpleasant! Good Lord! But it's got to come, and it makes me nervous waiting for it."

"You are quite a philosopher, Colonel," said Boyd. He thought of Kenneth, and realized with a pang that he had really never considered the matter of their relations at all. Did he hold Ken as boy or man? It was something to think about. "How many children have you, Colonel?" he asked.

The Colonel considered a moment.

"Twenty-nine," he replied.

Boyd started. "I should not have thought it," he recovered himself. "Are they—that is—is the present Mrs. Peyton your first wife?"

The Colonel chuckled delightedly.

"Mrs. Peyton is my first and only wife, and we have neither chick nor child of our own," he explained, "but I have twenty-nine children around this place just the same. I'm not sure but it is thirty—I like the looks of that lad of yours, Boyd."

They were driving down the long length of Main Street now. The Colonel was busy responding to salutations. It was the shopping hour; and this was the era of personal shopping. Buggies, surries, phaetons with fringed canopy tops, saddle horses stood hitched to rails and posts the full length of the street. Ladies under gay parasols were conversing in the middle of the sidewalk, or selected vegetables or fruits from the displays in the open windows. Mexicans lounged in front of the saloons. Shopkeepers who for the moment did no business stood in their doorways. Down a side street Boyd looked into Chinatown—a collection of battered old frame and adobe buildings that mysteriously had been lifted sheer from squalor to splendid romance by no other means than red paper, varnished ducks, rattan baskets, calico partitions, exotic smells and a brooding, spiritual atmosphere of the orient. They passed the San Antonio hotel which the Colonel casually mentioned as his own.

"There are always a number of people no gentleman would want to entertain in his home," he told the astonished Boyd. "I had to have some place for them."

Soon they reached the beach, a semicircle of yellow sands three miles long flanked by cliffs and rocks, with a lagoon running in from the sea, and small scattered shacks with drying nets and the odour of fish and abalone. A lazy surf dropped languidly. Sea birds wheeled and screamed or sailed in long steady processions across a tranquil sea. The smell of kelp was in the air.

It was low tide and the wet sands were exposed. On the hard, stoneless beach riding parties could be seen; and before them, when they galloped, the flash of white as of miniature snow squalls where the sanderlings wheeled in flight. The long swells rose and sucked back among the pilings of the wharf, draining and freshening the numberless barnacles, toredos, starfish, and sea urchins that crusted them; or lifting and letting fall their long sea tresses. The wharf was over a half mile long and ended in a platform that held many buildings, like a little city. The chestnuts trotted briskly over the hollow sounding boards.

"We're just about in time," observed the Colonel, pointing with his whip.

A cloud of black smoke was rising above the cliffs where the coast bent. After a moment the ship appeared and turned in toward the wharf. As she turned she fired a cannon. After a few seconds the report reached them; and after a long interval the echoes began faintly to return from the mountains. For Arguello had no railroad as yet. The traveller must either take a two days' stage ride, or come thus by water. The steamer was one of the most important facts in Arguello's life; and she knew it, and conducted herself accordingly with pomp and the firing of guns. Later, when the Southern Pacific completed its spur, she was content to sneak in quietly.

On the big platform at the end of the wharf quite a crowd was gathered. The long hotel busses had backed up side by side, and their runners were standing ready at their sterns. The Colonel drove alongside and stopped.

The steamer docked with the usual bustle and confusion, and the passengers streamed down the gang plank and toward the busses through a passage between two ropes. The Colonel became alert. As each passenger or group came to the runners he made a sign with his whip. The runners caught it and shunted the passenger to one or the other of the waiting busses. Thus Colonel Peyton segregated the sheep from the goats, sending the former to the Fremont and the latter to the San Antonio. At times there was a little argument from someone who had been to Arguello before and who had ideas as to where he wanted to stop. But this did him little good.

"There are no rooms, left at the Fremont," said the runner of the San Antonio: a statement corroborated on appeal by the Fremont official. If the individual proved obstinate and said he would go see for himself, no objection was made. But the clerk, tipped off by the porter, who in turn had been tipped off by the runner, was very sorry, but——

All this the Colonel explained to Boyd in answer to questions while the initial stage of selection was going on.

"I look on the Fremont as a little different from the usual hotel," he explained, sincerely. "People come there to spend the whole season; and they like to get acquainted with each other and I like to get acquainted with them. So, naturally, you don't want anybody there you would not care to know."

When the busload should arrive at the Fremont, and should go to their rooms, they would find there baskets of roses with the Colonel's personal card. And when they left, whether their stay had been three months or three days, they would be presented, to refresh the journey, with a basket of fine fruit, again with Colonel Peyton's personal card. It was his custom.

II

The Colonel drove rapidly back to the hotel.

"I am sorry to desert you so abruptly, sir," he said courteously, "but I have considerable business now to attend. I trust we shall meet often."

"It has been a most interesting morning," returned Boyd. "You may see more of me than you want. The more I see of your climate and surroundings here, the better I like them."

He watched the Colonel drive away with Daphne again by his side.

"Most extraordinary old cuss I ever saw," he remarked to one of his cronies who joined him. This was Marcus Oberman, a brewer from Milwaukee: small, white, wizened, wrinkled, not at all like a brewer, but playing a remarkably good hand at poker. "Fine old chap. He seems to have more interests here than you would think. Make this hotel pay, do you think?"

"Don't see how he can," cackled Oberman, "but he makes us comfortable and that's all that worries me."

"This is going to be a wonderful valley, Oberman, you mark my words. There's no climate like it in the world. And nowhere will you get a combination like this of mountains and the sea. Look at the flowers. It's a garden spot. The day will come when there'll be fine homes all over these foothills. The man who buys real estate and holds it is bound to make money."

"The place is as dead as pickled herring," said Oberman. "Did you ever in your born days see such streets, such lighting, such sewers, such everything? A town of this size! Disgraceful, I call it!"

"They're asleep. Just needs someone to wake them up."

"Well, I'm no alarm clock. I'm having a good tune. As for making money, I know a trick worth two of that." He made a motion as though spreading a hand of cards.

"Now I can prove you wrong there, at any rate," said Boyd. "Come on, you old Dutch pirate; let's find the gang."

The Colonel drove directly to the Clock Building and pulled up.

"I'll be gone some little time," he told Daphne. "If you want, I'll hitch the team and you can play around." But Daphne preferred to sit and wait; so the Colonel entered the bank.

He made his way, bowing to the men behind the grilles, directly to the frosted door that led into Oliver Mills's office. This was customarily on the latch; but an alert and active clerk had already flitted around to slip the bolt, so the Colonel entered without delay.

"Good morning, Oliver," he greeted the banker, who half arose, "I trust I find you well."

"Quite well, Colonel, and yourself and Mrs. Peyton?"

The Colonel carefully deposited his stove-pipe hat bottom up on the desk top, spread his coat tails and sat down.

"Fine! Fine! Do you know, Oliver, you were a disgrace at my party yesterday?"

"Disgrace!" echoed Mills blankly, turning his bulging blue eyes on the Colonel.

"I had my eye on you. The way you carried on with Mrs. Stanley was a scandal. We are all much interested."

"I assure you," cried Mills earnestly, his naturally ruddy face deepening in colour, "you are quite mistaken, Colonel, quite. I esteem Mrs. Stanley and I am aware of her widowed condition and the extent of her property interests; but her possibility as an amorous vis-aà-vis never has entered my head!"

The Colonel eyed him with twinkling eyes.

"You greatly relieve my mind, Oliver," he said with entire gravity. "But I must get home to dinner to-day, so I cannot go further into your domestic troubles. I just dropped in to get a little money."

Mills was eyeing him suspiciously, evidently still red and indignant, but uncertain.

"Our cashier will fix you up—how much will you want?" reaching to strike a silver call bell.

But the Colonel restrained the movement.

"No, no, Oliver, it is not a matter of currency. You misunderstand me. I want a loan."

"How much?"

"I don't know—ten or fifteen thousand, I should think."

Mills reached for an indexed desk book and consulted it.

"Collateral security, Colonel?" he asked.

"No; put it on the property."

Mills closed the book slowly. He was evidently worried and a little embarrassed.

"Is this for personal use, Colonel?" he asked.

The Colonel straightened.

"Egad, Mr. Mills," he said gently. "I cannot see the bearing of that question. Is not my credit good?"

"Perfectly, perfectly," Mills hastened, "my question was awkwardly expressed. I want to know whether this loan is for personal use, for use on the hotel properties, or on the ranches."

"I still fail to see what bearing my use of the money has to do with the question. Egad, sir, I cannot forbear pointing out that in thirty years in this community this is the first time any difficulty has been made over the loan of so paltry a sum!"

"Now, Colonel," returned Mills, "you must not blame me for asking simple financial questions. There is no difficulty whatever making the loan. But it must be remembered that part of my duty to my stockholders and depositors is to know something about where their money goes. You are borrowing on your property, but I have no knowledge as to whether this money is to be spent Inside the property for its improvement, or outside with no return."

The Colonel thought a moment.

"Possibly you are correct there, Oliver. I do not pretend to know a great deal of the banking business." The banker's brow cleared. He did not want to hurt the Colonel's feelings with the direct statement:—that the Colonel's borrowings on his property had already passed the point where general credit is good, and was approaching the point where details would have to be looked into a little. "This loan is to fill out some trifling needs at the Fremont."

"How is the Fremont doing lately?"

"Splendidly; splendidly! We have as lovely a lot of people as you would find anywhere in the country; and all are pleased and satisfied. I fully believe all our friends intend to return next winter."

"That is good; but I mean financially."

"Watson gave me the figures this morning; I've got them somewhere. Here you are," said the Colonel, handing over the statement he had stowed away in his inside pocket.

Mills went through the foolscap sheets carefully.

"This does not seem to be as good a showing as we might expect from the very crowded season we have enjoyed," he suggested at last.

"I haven't looked over the figures," said the Colonel, "but as you know, the money end does not concern me so much. We should have a hotel here, worthy of our town, worthy of the people who come here. I cannot adopt a niggardly attitude toward my guests; that goes without saying."

"I appreciate that, Colonel; the bank appreciates it; in fact I feel safe to say the whole town appreciates it. But," he turned to his desk book, "Richard, the Fremont has run behind eight thousand dollars a month for the past year."

"God bless my soul! You don't say so!" cried the Colonel, a little dashed. "I had never figured it out. But improvements—there's the San Antonio—one must strike an average, my dear Oliver."

"The San Antonio is a little ahead, that is true. Does that suggest nothing to you?"

"What do you mean?"

"Are you satisfied that your manager is the best for the position?"

"Watson? Why, he's the best I ever saw! I defy you to find in the United States—yes, or in Europe—a better run, more comfortable hotel than the Fremont!"

"It's well run in that way; but how about this?" said Mills, laying his hand on the statement.

"I cannot afford to be niggardly with my guests," repeated the Colonel, "and I cannot afford to discredit Arguello. The money will come back many times over, later."

"Perhaps. But we are talking about now. And it's a matter of ten or fifteen thousand dollars. I hate to say so, Richard, and I would not hurt your feelings for the world, but the Fremont is carrying all the loan it can stand. In fact it is carrying far more than any other bank would advance on it."

"Oh, that is what bothers you! I see!" cried the Colonel, relieved. "I am glad to know what all the pother is about. Why, God bless your soul, put it on the rancho. You bankers are so confounded hidebound, Oliver. Just because it is to be used for the hotel! I don't care a continental red cent what I borrow it on."

Mills picked up a heavy paper knife and balanced it carefully, as though in some mysterious fashion it would add weight to his words.

"Now, Colonel, listen to me, and do not misunderstand my motives. Your credit is perfectly good, and I am not casting suspicion on it in any way. But this bank cannot loan you money for the purposes of the Fremont Hotel unless the Fremont Hotel can carry it; and the Fremont Hotel is mortgaged to the full at present. In other words this bank holds that any going business ought to take care of itself in prosperous times. If it cannot, it should retrench or change methods."

The Colonel stiffened again.

"My knowledge of banking is limited, as I said before," said he. "Do I understand this is the business policy of banks?"

Mills hesitated a little at this direct question.

"Is the Fremont Hotel a serious business with you, Colonel; or is it a toy? " he countered.

"I am of the years of discretion, sir. I do not play with toys," replied the Colonel.

"Then if it is a serious business, it should stand on its feet. Now let me tell you, Colonel, this promiscuous mortgage business is a very dangerous thing. I speak from long experience as a banker. Some day when you get tune I wish you would go over to the courthouse and look over the tax lists of the outside property for years past. It would open your eyes. First lists were small and all Spanish names. Then they became larger, and alongside of each Spanish name appeared one or two American names. As time went on the lists grew longer and longer, and even the few Spanish names became fewer and the American names more numerous. Now how do you account for that?"

"The big ranchos were divided up, of course."

"Yes, but why? Not one of those old Spanish holders would sell an acre. I'll tell you how it happened in one word—mortgaged! In the case of the Cantado in the south, old Pancho borrowed twenty-five thousand dollars. The interest was high and was compounded every month. Before the matter was settled Pancho owed nearly three hundred thousand and lost the whole ranch, just on the basis of that original twenty-five thousand—that's all he ever really got for it."

"That was an exceptional case."

"It was the usual case. But take one nearer home. Take Las Flores."

"Don Vincente is not in trouble, is he?" asked the Colonel, quickly.

"Of course he is in trouble. But this is of course confidential, between us as friends. Las Flores has been mortgaged and re-mortgaged until it is like a full bucket, it will not hold a single drop more. I am afraid we shall have to foreclose on at least part of it to protect ourselves."

"Surely you would not do that!" cried the Colonel.

"No, I would not do that. But perhaps the bank must, and I shall have to order it because I am president. I must protect my stockholders against great and actual loss, no matter how reluctant I may be personally. I have let this go longer, much longer than I should even now. You must believe that."

"Of course I do; of course I do," said the Colonel, obviously much distressed. "But Don Vincente—Las Flores—how much is on it?"

"A very large amount. I am not quite at liberty to tell you. If he could begin to keep up his interest I might have been able to face the directors in his behalf with some assurance, but he is twelve thousand dollars behind on that, or will be by the first of the month."

"Well, well, I am sorry to hear that," murmured the Colonel, his brows knit. He was looking on the floor, studying hard over the situation, and only half heard the rest of the banker's remarks.

"That is why I cannot advance the sum you want for the Fremont Hotel. It should be able to carry itself. It is not so much business as friendship. I would rather see you sell something outright than borrow, no matter how well able you are to carry further loans."

"You advise me to sell something? What kind of banking advice is that? What is a bank for?"

"It is very unusual banking advice," admitted Mills frankly, "but it is offered from a friendly and not a business point of view. I would like to see you clean up there at the Fremont and make a fresh start on a new basis and with different management. If there is money anywhere in the hotel business, it ought to be here."

The Colonel thought a few moments.

"Perhaps you are right, Oliver," he concluded at last. "I will do as you say. But I must have that money now, and it will take time to sell anything without loss."

"I will tell you what I am going to do," stated Mills firmly. "I am going to loan you fifteen thousand dollars on a thirty day note; and I am going to tell you right here and now that I am not going to renew or extend it. That will give you plenty of time to make your sale. Is that satisfactory?"

"What security do you want?"

"Your word of honour to raise the money as I suggest. This is a personal transaction."

"Of course I promise, Oliver," returned the Colonel, "and may I be permitted to say this is very handsome of you."

III

Ten minutes later, the Colonel emerged from the bank, his breast pocket bulging. He had taken twelve thousand dollars of the amount in currency.

"I am sorry to be so long, Puss," said he, climbing to his seat. "Hope you have not been too much bored."

They drove rapidly out of town, for these matters had consumed time, and it was now after eleven o'clock. Every few moments the Colonel chuckled aloud. For awhile Daphne made no comment on these outbursts, but finally demanded an explanation:

"What are you laughing at?"

"Nothing, Puss; nothing you would understand."

She fell silent, but after a few more repetitions she burst out indignantly.

"Godpapa," she said severely, "you are acting exactly like a bad boy who has been up to mischief."

"My dear, you must excuse me," apologized the Colonel, "I have done a very difficult thing. I've fooled Oliver Mills."

For here behold the Colonel in the rôle of gay deceiver. During all of the latter part of the interview he had been scheming. A new use for money had come into his mind. He signed the note in entire good faith, and would sell property to meet it; but this particular fifteen thousand dollars would never see the Fremont Hotel. That impecunious hostelry would have to be helped out in another way.

"Very hungry, Puss?" he asked.

"Hungry!" she scorned, "after such a breakfast! And at that hour!"

"Want to take a little drive and have fruit for lunch?"

"Where? Oh, let's! But how will we let them know at home?"

"I see Manuelo ahead. That is what gave me the notion," said the Colonel, pointing with his whip. "He can take them word."

Daphne settled back blissfully. These impromptu excursions were by no means unusual, and they were always good fun. The Colonel might drive his chestnuts directly across country to some distant spring or windmill to see how the cattle were making out. In that case there were exciting dives down the precipitous sides of barrancas with brakes squealing, and the jerk at the bottom as the horses took up the slack in preparation for the plunge up the other side; and tippy progressions along flower starred side hills when it seemed that they must turn over; and bump-itty-bumps across the bottom lands, with ground squirrels scurrying to the holes, and the little burrowing owls bobbing. Or he might drop in on some of his outposts, little adobe buildings whitewashed, in which case there were generally fat comfortable Mexican women and brown children, and a meal of Spanish dishes; but in any event, even when women lacked, one was sure of friendly dogs.

To-day, however, they continued straight on past the Avenue of Palms along the Camino Real, so Daphne knew they were going to Las Flores.

Las Flores was an old-fashioned Spanish ranch house situated atop a low wide knoll. It was one-storied and built in patio style, of course, with casement windows opening outward, thick walls, floors of big polished square tiles laid unevenly on the ground. The low ceilings showed huge beams hewn by hand. In the kitchen wing Daphne remembered the great smoke cowl, like a candle extinguisher, and the dark rafters, and the bright utensils glittering in the dusk. There were flowers in the patio, and a curious fountain; and quaint faded old brocaded furniture and fragile, inlaid glassed cabinets full of queer ancient things, and a tinkling piano with a painted scene on its cover, and many frowning, darkened portraits. It was crowded, stuffy, mysteriously ancient within; and sunny, bright, luxuriously lazy without. Daphne never went there without either discovering something inside she had never noticed before; or something lying about outside that was not there at her last visit—a saddle, or riata, or matate, or some such matter. On one or two rare occasions Don Vincente had showed her some of the things in the glassed cabinets and had explained them to her. There was, for instance, the filagreed gold smelling bottle presented to an ancestor by the Queen Isabella herself. As near as Daphne could make out the said ancestor, acting in capacity of page, had while riding in attendance on the queen been thrown off on his head. The queen on hearing the circumstances sent first aid to the injured in the form of kind inquiries and the smelling bottle. As to why the smelling bottle had not thereafter been returned to its royal owner, Don Vincente was not quite clear. But it was very interesting. Daphne, however, was a trifle uncomfortable with the rotund, side whiskered dignified little gentleman. She liked better Doña Cazadero, or Pilar, his daughter. These ladies differed only in size around and age, for Doña Cazadero and her amiable daughter were almost exact replicas inside their pretty rather silly heads and their capacious and very warm breasts. They possessed also about the same low horsepower in energy and high voltage in pride of family and race. They dwelt in wrappers and hammocks all the early part of the day, but came forth nobly every afternoon for a stately drive to town in the victoria.

Sure enough, when they descended and one of the numerous loitering Mexicans had taken charge of their team, Daphne found the ladies in their usual cool nook. The Colonel, at this time of day, naturally awaited the Don in the parlour. Dona Cazadero and Pilar were this morning filled with unusual animation. Their novels were lying neglected, the chocolate box had not even been opened. Pasteboard boxes and wrapping paper lay strewn about, and over the benches that had evidently been brought up for the purpose were draped bolts of beautiful dress materials.

"It is the little one!" cried Dona Cazadero in Spanish, which Daphne had—as all children of that day—picked up after a fashion. "Just in time! You must help. See these things have but just come, and you must assist. Here are materials come straight from New York and Pilar and I must choose how they shall be made and which of us will wear them."

In five minutes Daphne was lost in the twentieth feminine heaven of ravishment. Such a profusion could nowhere else have been seen outside of a dry goods shop. There were silks heavy as canvas and light as a spider web; brocades that rivalled Chinatown's best; satins; lawns; linens patterned and plain. They were all in the piece. But also there were nearly a dozen gowns all made up, patterns of the styles, dainty ravishing creations; and slippers, and silk stockings of all colours, and many other more intimate affairs. Daphne was breathless with awe. Never before had she seen anything like it.

"It is so confusing!" cried Pilar in despair. "There are so many! For the evening gown, I cannot decide. Let us wait until the new jewels come."

"Jewels?" breathed Daphne.

"It is a nothing. But when last in San Francisco I saw a set of emeralds that was of a great beauty, a green like the new summer. Ever since they have been in my dreams. And last week papa consented. So they have been sent for, and they should come now very soon. It would be better to make an evening gown to match with them; do not you think so, niña?"

"If I had just one, just one dress like any of those," breathed Daphne, "I'd never think about emeralds. And if I had emeralds, I'd never remember a gown—like Salome before Herod."

Pilar laughed; but Doña Cazadero looked severe.

"I think you do not think what you say, niña," she rebuked. "It is not modest. I am not quite sure, but I think it is blasphemous as well."

In the meantime Don Vincente had come in and greeted the Colonel in his slow and dignified manner, apologizing for the delay. Fully two minutes were consumed in the leisurely exchange of beautiful compliments in the Spanish fashion; and then Don Vincente led his visitor to his own private office at the end of the east wing. This was a small, stuffy, rather dark room with a huge desk, leather chairs, sheepbound books, a large carved wood clock, an owl under a glass dome, abalone shells, some framed documents in Spanish, a leather lounge, a bridle braided of bright-dyed horsehair. It was crowded coziness. Here the gentlemen sat themselves down and lighted cigars.

"I have come on a personal matter," began the Colonel, after the preliminary conversation had been cleared away. "Between men not as intimate as ourselves, it would be an affair of some delicacy. But with us it is as one brother speaking to another within family walls. We have been neighbours and friends for thirty years."

"Proceed, Ricardo," said Don Vincente. "Nothing you could say to me would be taken amiss."

"I am informed, in confidence, that there is some difficulty in meeting a trifling obligation, and that you may lose a portion of Las Flores. Is that true?"

Don Vincente blew a cloud and shrugged his shoulders.

"True enough. It is business, I suppose. I can blame nobody; though it has seemed to me that a little patience until the season of the selling of cattle would not have been much to ask. Last season, as you know, was dry and bad. It had not seemed to me until lately that money was lacking. There has always been plenty. Some mistake, I think. Impossible to say. But Señor Mills has explained to me. I can see the justice of his remarks. He cannot be blamed. It is only a misfortune, and one must bear misfortune serenely when it comes."

The Colonel's kind old face was beaming with pleasure; and if Don Vincente had happened to be looking at him instead of staring obstinately at the stuffed owl, he might have been considerably surprised at the fact.

"What portion of the rancho is involved?" asked the Colonel.

"I have discussed that with the Señor Mills, and we have agreed that the rancheria will set things right."

"It would be a pity to lose the rancheria."

Don Vincente sighed.

"I shall regret the necessity; yes. In the old days it was the home of my people's Indians, before they scattered. It possesses historic and sentimental interest. But it can be the best spared."

The Colonel chuckled aloud. Don Vincente looked at him in surprise and a slight displeasure.

"See, old friend," cried the Colonel, "how fortunately these things turn out! It happens that just at this moment I have a sum of money by me that has come to me in an unexpected fashion"—Oh, sly but truth-telling old Colonel!—"just at this moment of your need! It is not as great as I would have it, perhaps it is not enough, but such as it is you are welcome to the loan of it."

Don Vincente's expression did not change, but a cloud seemed to lift in the depths of his melancholy black eyes.

"How much is it, amigo?" he asked, striving hard for a careless absence of haste.

"About fifteen thousand dollars."

Don Vincente's pent breath exhaled softly.

"Twelve thousand will be enough. I cannot refuse."

"Refuse! I should think not! It is what any neighbour would expect of any other. You shall pay me at your convenience—when the cattle are sold—at any time." The Colonel fumbled in his pocket and produced the roll of bills. Don Vincente received them and thrust them nonchalantly into a half open drawer.

"It shall be as you say, Ricardo; and thank you. My vaqueros tell me you have placed sheep on the Alisal. Is it your idea to make of that sierra a sheep range?"

They talked for some moments longer, and then the Colonel arose to go. The subject of the money was not again mentioned between them.

IV

"Well, Puss," observed the Colonel cheerily, as they drove away from Las Flores. "We have had a very busy and profitable morning. If we hurry, we can get home for a late lunch after all. What say?"

"What will Sing Toy say; that's the question."

"True, true. Perhaps we'd better play hookey after all."

"I'll tell you what let's do," cried Daphne, wriggling about in her seat with the splendour of her idea. "Let's go to my house and I'll cook us both some lunch. You've never eaten my cooking. Oh, I would like to show you! Will you? Say yes; say yes!"

"Yes," obeyed the Colonel promptly.

"You dear!" cried Daphne, and threw her arms around him so vigorously that the chestnuts leaped and the Colonel all but lost overboard his stovepipe hat.

They turned off across country and drove down remembered shallow swales and over low flats in the hills. The air sang with insects and birds, was heavy with the odour of lupine. The bright scarves of the wild flowers lay flung across the slopes; the tiny stars of the alfileria peeped from its vivid green; under the live oaks the cattle stood as under benign, spreading arms. In the noon slept the ranges of the Sur in wonderful clarity of outline against a very blue sky, reposing until the evening when they must awaken to throw the magic of sunset changes across their ramparts. Buzzards swung in slow sleepy circles across the sky. Under the light wheels the flowers and grasses bent with a soft crushing sound; and from that crushing came a faint sweet odour different from all the rest. Nobody in the tepid sun-steeped world paid any attention to them—neither the insects, nor the birds, nor the cattle, nor the trees, nor the slumbering ranges; nobody except the sentinel ground squirrels. These scampered, and chirked shrilly, and sat up stiff and straight on their hind legs like so many picket pins.

After a time they came to a loose wire gate. Daphne hopped down to hold it aside, and so they drove into the tract owned by Brainerd.

The way led alongside a barbed wire fence, around the corner of a hill; and so, by a gentle grade to the bungalow. In the flat was an orchard of ten or twelve acres; up the cañon stretched a narrow strip of grain land; the sagebrush hills crowded close around; almost in the back dooryard rose the first abrupt, dark, chaparral-covered slopes of the Sur. The place did not look prosperous. Under the orchard trees the earth had been left too long uncultivated and the trees themselves were in need of pruning; deep ruts from the last rains made driving difficult; the paint on the low attractive bungalow had peeled and blistered in the sun. Nevertheless, there was none of the shiftless disorder usual in the premises of the average "sagebrusher." The few agricultural implements were under cover, there were no broken tools nor baling wire nor bottles and tin cans scattered about, the windmill had all its blades.

The Colonel hitched his team to the corral fence, and the two moved down on the bungalow.

"Daddy must be up the cañon fussing with the water," pronounced Daphne. "You go into the living room and I will have something in a jiffy. No, I don't want any help."

The Colonel walked on the wide veranda to the front of the house. The boards underfoot, slightly warped by the sun and the lack of paint, creaked under his deliberate tread. He entered the living room and sat down in a very worn leather chair, sighing with the comfort of an anticipated quarter hour's rest. His keen old eyes moved slowly from object to object in the long and narrow room. They were old and familiar to his sight, for many times in many years he had sat thus waiting, since Daphne was a little thing being put to bed.

It was a threadbare room, worn and old and never renovated; with a few pieces of much used furniture, and many shabby, faded books. A fireplace and mantel centred one side. It was a neat room withal. Even such scattered affairs as pipes, matches, magazines, and riding gear did not give an impression of things out of place.

"Here's Mugs to keep you company," said Daphne, suddenly opening the door and unceremoniously dumping down a fluffy ball that at once trundled itself in the Colonel's direction. "I won't be but a few minutes."

The tiny fat puppy came to a halt and fixed the Colonel with the blue eyes of extreme youth. The Colonel reached down and gathered him in. Immediately he snuggled down with a sleepy grunt of content.

It was nine years ago, just about this time of year. The Colonel, staring out the window across the magnificent acres of Corona del Monte, remembered every detail. Manuelo had come riding in one noon to announce that a man was camping at the mouth of Ramon Cañon. There was nothing unusual in this; but after dinner, the Colonel, having nothing better to do, rode around that way to see what the man was up to. He found a tent under the oaks, a pair of horses grazing in the bottom, and a stranger seated on the wagon pole mending harness. He was tall, gaunt, hollow-eyed, dressed in a flannel shirt and overalls. Both the latter articles were clean. High on his cheeks burned two round red spots. The Colonel knew the type—a "lunger." The man looked up from under his heavy brows, but made no move.

"Good afternoon," the Colonel greeted cheerfully.

The man merely nodded.

"You have selected a good place to camp. You will find spring water up that side about forty rods."

"I have found it," said the man grudgingly. His voice, unexpectedly, was cultivated.

"I hope you will stay just as long as you feel like doing so," pursued the Colonel, "and make yourself quite at home."

The man for the first time looked directly at him.

"I intend to do so," said he. "I have filed on this hundred and sixty."

"Filed?"

"Yes, filed—taken it up—homesteaded it."

"This is not Government land. It is part of my rancho."

"That is where you are wrong," stated the newcomer, vigorously. "Look up your titles."

"I have no need to do so, sir," rejoined the Colonel with dignity. "I have owned this rancho for twenty years."

"It doesn't matter if you have owned it for two hundred," retorted the man. "This particular corner is not yours."

The Colonel checked his reply and rode away. After all, it was beneath his dignity to quarrel with the fellow; and, besides, he looked sick. His claim was absurd, of course. Nevertheless, the Colonel next day instructed lawyer Stanley to investigate. La Corona del Monte was part of an original Spanish grant, and Spanish grants were notoriously uncertain. The grantee was given so many leagues in a given direction. He and the surveyor determined the boundaries almost by guess, and marked them by trees, small piles of rock, or even a "steer's skull." Property overlapped or left gaps. At first, when the country was pastoral, and there were no fences, this did not particularly matter; but later it resulted in a great mass of litigation. Lawyer Stanley reported that the mouth of Ramon Cañon might by a stretch of the law be considered one of these gaps and so open to entry. But it was only by a stretch of the law, and he expressed the further opinion that the claim could be easily upset. The squatter problem was at that period a great and growing nuisance. These sagebrushers, as they were called, established themselves where they pleased, if they considered themselves strong enough. Already, in the North there had been several squatter wars. Therefore the Colonel instructed Stanley to go ahead; and promptly dismissed the whole matter from his mind.

That was of a Tuesday. On Wednesday the Colonel, riding abroad, surmounted a hill to see below him on the flat a group of cattle weaving restlessly back and forth, their heads up, and all facing in the same direction. The Colonel knew well the symptoms. The half wild creatures saw something unaccustomed, and they could not make up their minds whether to rush it or to run away. The object of their curiosity might be one of the ranch dogs, or perhaps a coyote or bobcat, or—almost inconceivably—a man on foot. Almost inconceivably, because no man but knew the habits of range cattle. The latter, gentle as possible with horsemen, became fierce and dangerous when the rider dismounted. So the Colonel, more in idleness than in curiosity rode down the slope to see what was the matter. The great restless beasts gave way excitedly as he rode through them. Thus for the first time he met Daphne.

He saw a very small frightened little morsel in a Scotch plaid dress standing in the middle of the closing circle. She was bareheaded and very white, and she clasped a fat puppy—own kin to the furry ball on which the Colonel's hand instinctively tightened at the recollection. But she faced her great enemies erect and still defiant.

The Colonel knew cattle; and he realized that he had arrived on the instant. His powerful horse leaped under the spur. In true vaquero style, he leaned from his saddle and swept up the little maid just as the foremost cows broke into the tentative high flung trot that would precede a rush. He turned on them savagely in the relief of tension, and drove them back with shouts. They obeyed the single horseman.

After a moment the Colonel's common sense returned, and he reined down his animal. The little maid was very much rumpled, her dignity had been terribly upset, she was very frightened; but she had neither cried out nor dropped the puppy. The Colonel straightened her out and set her in front of him. His horse, a proud, docile and well trained beast, stepped softly.

"Well!" said the Colonel, "that was a close call! Who are you, and how in the world do you happen to be here?"

The child looked up at him gravely for a moment before replying.

"My name is Daphne Brainerd," she recited, with the precise directness of childhood, "’n I am six years old. I have no bumbalow. Who are you?"

"I?—I—Oh, I'm a fairy godfather, Puss," rejoined the Colonel. "But where do you live and how do you happen to be away out here all alone?"

The child looked up at him again with new interest. The idea of a fairy godfather evidently fitted accurately with rescue.

"I live with my daddy in a tent," she informed him, "and I got lost. My daddy will be very cross, 'cause he told me not to go out alone 'cause I haven't any bumbalow."

"Bumbalow?" repeated the Colonel, turning his horse toward Ramon Cañon. "What is that?"

"I don't know 'zactly," confessed Daphne. "It's something you have to have before you can go out anywhere alone. Maybe daddy will get me one when I grow older. We prob'ly can't 'ford one now. Daddy is poor and he is sick sometimes. We can't 'ford lots of things."

"Maybe he will be able to afford one later," agreed the Colonel, "though I must confess I never heard of one. What did your daddy say about it?"

"'You must not go out of sight of the tent,'" mimicked the child, "'cause you have abs'lutely no bumbalowcality.'"

"Bump of locality!" cried the Colonel with a shout of laughter.

As they neared Ramon Cañon he caught sight of something far ahead through the trees.

"I am going to put you down here," he told Daphne, "and you must stand perfectly still, and in a very few minutes your daddy will come and find you. I will vanish, as a fairy godfather should."

"Have you got any peppermint candy?" demanded the surprising child.

The Colonel, humiliated, confessed that he fell that far short of a perfect fairy godfather. But, parenthetically, from that day he never so failed again, as scores of children now grown up will testify.

He set her carefully down and withdrew. From the safe screen of chaparral he witnessed a frantic meeting. From it he rode away slowly, blowing his nose. That very afternoon he made a call on Stanley.

"I've decided not to contest that homestead in Ramon Cañon," he announced, very abruptly for the Colonel. "Drop the proceedings."

"But, Colonel, that is in the heart of—"

"It's no great use to me. Dammit, the man's sick, I tell you."

A year had passed and Brainerd had made a start. Evidently he possessed a little money, for soon materials and workmen appeared; but evidently that money no more than sufficed for permanent improvements, for after the latter were completed Brainerd rarely employed men. He tried to attend to his own cultivation, but had not the overplus energy necessary to make a success. It was not through lack of intelligence, nor ambition, nor diligence; it was plain lack of strength to carry good beginnings to good endings. The little ranch ran the classic gamut: ground squirrels took more than their share of the potatoes; the chickens and quail ruined most of the vegetables; the wildcats and foxes got in at the chickens; deer and rabbits destroyed the vines; swarms of birds took the first bearing of the fruit; gophers by thousands ruined the hardly dug irrigating ditch that was designed to bring water from the upper spring to the orange grove. These were all difficulties usual to such a situation, but to meet them successfully requires youth, strength, optimism. They superimpose themselves on the hard, physical labour required to plough, harrow, plant, cultivate, keep in repair. Brainerd did not die. The red spots in his cheeks became less vivid. But at times if it had not been for the very jackrabbits, his enemies, he might have died—of starvation. Nowadays people do not eat jackrabbit knowingly. Then they did, and blessed him as the saviour of the situation.

But Brainerd survived, and somehow made a little headway. The bungalow did not get painted; the brown grass grew in the garden; the fruit trees produced a scant crop for lack of full cultivation; there were many loose odds and ends. Still, by the time the jackrabbits learned to keep away from the immediate vicinity of the house, it was no longer necessary to depend on them for a meat supply. Brainerd worked his soil and read his books and raised his daughter after his own ideas. The books were varied and old-fashioned, Frank Forrester's Sporting Scenes, Dickens in toto, Handley Cross, Moby Dick, The Cloister and the Hearth, were some of them. Without discrimination he liked to read them aloud to little Daphne, who thereby acquired mixed and incomplete ideas beyond her years. He also took considerable pains with that young lady's education. The most noticeable result was a certain directness of vision resulting from an almost frantic persistence against sham and subterfuge.

"Don't pretend, Daffy, and don't dodge," he would tell her over and over in many different ways. The result in the future would probably be admirable; but in the childish years it resulted in a rather terrible frankness.

At first he and the Colonel did not get on at all. This was not the Colonel's fault; and indeed the latter was blissfuly unaware of the fact they were not getting on. Merely he found Brainerd a trifle difficult and reserved. In his rides about the country he often swung down by the new farm; and, from the vantage of his saddle, looked about on how things were going. He saw a good many lacks, both in materials and in labour: and at first he sometimes attempted to supply them. Brainerd resented fiercely these kindly meant incursions into his affairs. To his mind they both showed humiliating knowledge of his deficiencies and scented of the big proprietor. All he wanted was to be let alone. His ill health drained down his vitality, so that after his necessary work, he had little energy to contemplate the discouraging total of things necessarily left undone, and none at all with which to be good humoured. The Colonel's geniune neighbourliness had this effect, however, that Brainerd never quite reached the point of open rebuff, as he certainly would have done to one less sincerely desirous of being friendly. But the Colonel never succeeded in giving him an hour or a cent's worth of help.

It was Mrs. Peyton who in the end brought that about. Allie drove about the ranch and into town behind a pair of diminutive but wicked black ponies. They were not much bigger than good-sized St. Bernard dogs, and they wore long furry coats and copious manes and tails. Polished russet harness attached them to a varnished buckboard that looked several sizes too large for them. When Mrs. Peyton mounted to the seat, she looked as though she had for the fun of the thing taken over a child's equipage. Nevertheless the black ponies would go just as fast as full sized horses. Their legs fairly twinkled as they whirled the varnished buckboard down the road or across country on the rancho; and they could keep it up for hours, ending with the same ludicrous appearance of earnest energy with which they started out. Mrs. Peyton had to have loops in the reins by which to hold them when they felt too fresh. With them she explored the entire countryside, displaying a fine disregard for roads.

She saw plainly enough, though the Colonel did not, Brainerd's pride, and the method he was taking to show it. One time, after Brainerd had been settled about a year, she took with her a cake. Brainerd could hardly refuse that, especially as the gift was ostensibly made to Daphne, not to him. Daphne, as may be imagined, was immensely pleased with the ponies, not to speak of comfortable, sympathetic, black-eyed Mrs. Peyton. The cake having been well digested, it was followed by a hot dish, carefully pinned in napkins.

"Once in a while Sing Toy manages to make something that is pretty good," said Allie, "and I am so pleased that I want to show off about it."

The something hot was merely half of a substantial meat pie with vegetables in it—a meal in itself. Brainerd felt uncomfortably that he was being come over; but Mrs. Peyton looked him blandly in the eye, and he decided to say nothing. Other hot dishes came at intervals; then some of the raw materials.

"Brought you over a few carrots and potatoes," she announced cheerfully. "I want you to compare them with yours. I believe that perhaps vegetables raised in the foothills have a little more flavour."

Brainerd had few fresh vegetables. At that period he was living mainly on staple groceries. Mrs. Peyton never explored about when she came over for a visit, but drove directly to the bungalow and directly away again. How much did the woman know, anyway?

"You must let me know which you think better," she was saying. This went on for some time. Then one morning one of the Colonel's Mexicans came loping over, carrying by the bale a stoppered milk can which he left without comment. The next day he reappeared, bearing another can, and taking the old one away. Brainerd was not at home either tune. He was exceedingly angry. This was going too far. It smacked of actual charity. He was simmering; and he made it a point to be at the bungalow next morning at the hour when the Mexican might be expected to appear. He did not come; but Mrs. Peyton did, with her little black ponies. She carried under her arm the stoppered milk can, which she deposited inside the door.

"Where is the empty can?" she asked Brainerd, who stood glowering by a pillar of the veranda. "Oh, that's the way it is," she stated incisively, as she looked up to see his face. "I expected as much, and that is why I am here. Come inside, my friend, I want to talk to you."

Brainerd followed her silently into the living room.

"Now, what is it?" she demanded. "Sit down, man, sit down, and don't look at me like a thunder cloud. I am not accustomed to it."

"I beg your pardon, Mrs. Peyton, I did not mean to appear discourteous. But I am seriously annoyed, and I suppose I show it."

"What are you annoyed at, pray?"

"This milk—I cannot permit——"

"You cannot permit me to do a simple neighbourly act without objecting," she interrupted him. "No, I am going to do the talking. We have sixty dairy cows. The milk is nothing; no more than if you offered me one of those daisies from your garden. Yes, I know what you're going to say. But let me say this: I am not bringing the milk on your account. I am bringing it for Daffy; and I shall continue to do so."

"My daughter is not a fit subject for charity," said Brainerd, stiffly. "I cannot agree that comparative strangers have any right to make her so."

"Your daughter will be a fit subject for a hospital if she does not get the food and care her age requires," stated Mrs. Peyton, bluntly, "and I cannot agree that you have any right to deprive her of them."

"Daphne is a perfectly healthy child," rejoined Brainerd, a shade of uncertainty creeping into his tone.

"Is she, indeed?" said Allie dryly. "How long do you think she will remain so on jackrabbits, pork and flapjacks? I do not want to seem unkind, Mr. Brainerd, nor to appear to pry into your affairs; but I do not intend that child to come to any harm through your foolishness. You can be just as fantastic and quixotic as you please in your own case; but when it is a question of Daphne, I expect and intend to use a little common sense."

She looked at him very directly. "Come now, that is a point we need not quarrel on. I have quite made up my mind." She held out her hand to him. "I will send Juan over in the morning with the milk. Where did you say the empty can was?"

"I will get it for you," said Brainerd. "And I will confess that I am very glad to get the milk for Daphne. But I insist on paying for it."

"That is handsomely said," replied Allie, "but I am not in the retail milk business, and I do not intend to be bothered with such matters. If it will relieve your mind any, Mr. Brainerd, I will say frankly that I have become very fond of your child, and that I know something of children, though I have none living. She needs certain things which you cannot supply to her in this out of the way place. I am going to give them to her. You do not interest me in the least; and I do not expect to have you interfere."

She sat very straight in her chair, like a ruffled dicky bird, and looked Brainerd uncompromisingly in the eye. The latter's shell of ill-healthy grumpiness was beginning to crack under this direct assault, and his natural sense of humour to peep forth. He surveyed her with twinkling eyes.

"Your reasoning is cogent, madam," he said gravely, "and I can see that it would be useless to resist. But it seems to me the situation should be regularized in some way. If you are to take such an interest in our destinies—Daphne's destiny—you should, to save my poor humble face, have an official position in the household," he raised his voice to call: "Daffy, oh Daffy, come here a moment!"

She toddled in from outside, her hair all towselled, her cheeks red.

"Daffy," said Brainerd gravely, addressing her with lofty courtesy, "I have called you to introduce you to a new relative, taken over without the customary benefit of clergy and ecclesiastical ceremony, but none the less real and genuine. Go and kiss your new godmother—" he hesitated a moment and rolled a humorous eye at the Colonel's wife. "——Aunt Allie," he finished boldly.

Allie gathered the mite to her arms and buried her face.

"You little darling," she choked; then she looked up, her eyes moist, "and I'm inclined to call you a big darling," said she.

"I'll get the milk can," said Brainerd, hastily.

Mrs. Peyton heroically kept away from the little ranch for a week thereafter; though she sent Manuelo to borrow Daphne one day "to see the little pigs." Then, munitioned with some foodstuff or other, she made another raid. In the course of the conversation with Brainerd she mentioned sagebrush honey.

"It has a flavour all its own—most delicious. We used to get it at San Diego, and I have always remembered it."

"I know it well," Brainerd broke in eagerly, for him. "In fact the bees I put in last year seem to prefer the sage. I can let you have some."

"Can you now, really? That would be a real treat."

Delighted to be able to reciprocate, Brainerd took the greatest pains to select the darkest and most highly flavoured of the sage honey for his gift. He was absurdly pleased at being able to do something, to offer something unique to his own small establishment. But the next time Mrs. Peyton's black ponies scrambled up the little hill, he met her with a sad shake of the head.

"You know you are an awful liar," he told her seriously.

"It can't be very serious if you call me that to my face," she smiled.

"It is serious. What do you mean by your sagebrush honey stuff?"

"What do I mean? What do you mean?"

"I took a Sunday off, and rode about the foothills yesterday. Why didn't you tell me the Colonel kept beehives in practically every cañon in the hills?—where there's nothing but sage?"

But Mrs. Peyton rallied instantly.

"I have no intention of being put upon," she announced, "nor of discussing my husband's affairs with you. Here are some fresh rolls for Daffy's lunch; and I have not a moment to stop. Take them!" and she drove off in full but orderly retreat.

The Colonel's experience was similar except that his victory was neither so pronounced nor so prompt. He had no luck at all with his proffers of help about the ranch. Brainerd would not listen to the loan of men, tools, or materials. He ran his own show, sometimes with scanty and inefficient help, but oftener by his own unaided and inadequate strength. For that reason the place never quite reached its proper efficiency. But Brainerd did not die, as he had been told he would, and a certain amount of produce got to the market. When the first fruit came in the Colonel offered to haul and market it with his own, charging a pro rata of expense. This seemed like a business proposition so, after some discussion, Brainerd assented. The Colonel was jubilant. He saw his chance. At the final accounting Brainerd's share proved to be pleasantly but unexpectedly heavy. On receiving it and the ingenious accounts the Colonel handed him, he said nothing. But the following season he quietly but briefly insisted that it was his turn to see to the marketing. He put it in such a way that the Colonel could not refuse.

"I don't know why, but that fellow makes me feel guilty!" he cried indignantly to Allie, "I'm ashamed to meet him——"

"You falsified accounts; you know you did," accused Allie, "and now you're going to be found out. No wonder you're ashamed to meet him."

"Well," the Colonel defended himself, "that child ought to have a few clothes and heaven knows Brainerd can't get a start in that miserable place without a little money, and——"

"I know. But now you must face the music."

The Colonel was very much disturbed. You would have thought, to judge by his furtive air whenever a fresh cloud of dust turned in to the Avenue of Palms, that he was a criminal in dread of the sheriff. He met Brainerd finally, with a false air of cheer.

"Well, my boy, fruit all sold?" he cried. "Afraid this year is not quite as good as last year. Can't expect two good years in succession, can we?"

Brainerd was eying him sardonically, and the Colonel, to his own indignation, found himself fidgeting like a school boy. Why, confound it! he was old enough to be this man's father, and he came from a proud old Blue Grass family, and he was lord of the Corona del Monte, and his name was known from end to end of the Californias. Nevertheless, he fidgeted.

"Judging by the results of our sales, you are right," said Brainerd. "Yet our crops are as heavy as last year, and my inquiries seem to show that prices are fully as high. But our returns are a full forty per cent less. I confess that in comparison with yourself, Colonel, I am a very poor salesman. I feel greatly at fault that I have not brought you better returns."

He spoke dryly, looking the Colonel in the eye.

"Nothing to worry about. Quite expected. I had especial market for the fruit—firm gone out of business now—lucky year last year——" muttered the Colonel.

"I am relieved to hear you say so," observed Brainerd. "Of course it can never happen again."

The Colonel escaped finally, feeling like a caught small boy. He was indignant; he had done nothing to be ashamed of. But he abandoned several half-formed ideas, such as secretly guaranteeing Brainerd's grocery bills.

Nevertheless on one point he was firm, just as Alice had been. He wanted Daphne to have a pony and he gave her one, together with a miniature stock saddle and a braided rawhide bridle. So far he and Mrs. Peyton had their way. But when it came to such matters as clothes, for example, they got no farther. Daphne grew up between them into the long-legged youngster we have seen, riding her pony, raising her puppies, reading her father's books, playing in the great tree she called Dolman's House—necessarily a varied education full of hiatuses. Her life was full of hiatuses, the Colonel thought as he waited for the lunch she was preparing. The matter of dress for example—Mrs. Peyton had long since given over interference there. Brainerd had inner citadels of independence one was not wise to attack——

"Here we are, fairy godpapa!" cried Daphne, triumphantly. "Here's something Aunt Allie taught me to make last week. See how you like it. And then we must go. I just remembered I told Aunt Allie I'd help her with the preserves this afternoon."

V

Colonel Peyton took the next steamer to the south, debarking at San Pedro, whence he soon arrived at Los Angeles. He carried with him a satchel full of documents. Without much difficulty he negotiated a further loan on his ranch property. He could easily have raised the amount, and more, in Arguello, but as Mills had so strongly advised against this procedure, the Colonel wished to spare the little banker's feelings. With the proceeds he paid the temporary loan, which, it will be remembered, he had passed over to Don Vincente. This left him exactly where he was before. At this juncture he recalled Mills's advice as to selling something and cleaning up the hotel indebtedness. The Colonel had nothing he particularly wanted to sell—except perhaps his stock in the First National Bank. He took this to a broker, who disposed of it inside of two days. The money more than sufficed to put the hotel in running order again. Everything was all right again; except that the Colonel became a little furtive whenever Oliver Mills hove in sight. Of course there was no reason for it. Bank stock is not a paying investment unless a man is in active business and constantly using all a bank's functions. To a ranchman like the Colonel its possession is sheer rank sentiment when another use can be found for the money. It was certainly his money to do what he pleased with. The Colonel rehearsed these and other arguments to himself, and agreed with himself on all of them. Nevertheless a vague feeling of guilt troubled him. The Colonel was always doing things that brought that vague feeling of guilt.