teen, bootblack. It did not amount to much. But in that happy
moisture that dimmed the old man's eyes, God knows it looked large
enough.

CHAPTER III.

Although the rays of an unclouded sun were hot in the Santa Clara roads
and byways, and the dry, bleached dust had become an impalpable powder,
the perspiring and parched pedestrian who rashly sought relief in the
shade of the wayside oak was speedily chilled to the bone by the
northwest trade-winds that on those August afternoons swept through the
defiles of the Coast Range, and even penetrated the pastoral valley of
San Jose. The anomaly of straw hats and overcoats with the occupants
of buggies and station wagons was thus accounted for, and even in the
sheltered garden of "El Rosario" two young girls in light summer
dresses had thrown wraps over their shoulders as they lounged down a
broad rose-alley at right angles with the deep, long veranda of the
casa. Yet, in spite of the chill, the old Spanish house and gardens
presented a luxurious, almost tropical, picture from the roadside.
Banks, beds, and bowers of roses lent their name and color to the
grounds; tree-like clusters of hanging fuchsias, mound-like masses of
variegated verbena, and tangled thickets of ceanothus and spreading
heliotrope were set in boundaries of venerable olive, fig, and pear
trees. The old house itself, a picturesque relief to the glaring
newness of the painted villas along the road, had been tastefully
modified to suit the needs and habits of a later civilization; the
galleries of the inner courtyard, or patio, had been transferred to the
outside walls in the form of deep verandas, while the old adobe walls
themselves were hidden beneath flowing Cape jessamine or bestarred
passion vines, and topped by roofs of cylindrical red tiles.

"Miss Yerba!" said a dry, masculine voice from the veranda.

The taller young girl started, and drew herself suddenly behind a large
Castilian rose-tree, dragging her companion with her, and putting her
finger imperatively upon a pretty but somewhat passionate mouth. The
other girl checked a laugh, and remained watching her friend's wickedly
leveled brows in amused surprise.

The call was repeated from the veranda. After a moment's pause there
was the sound of retreating footsteps, and all was quiet again.

"Why, for goodness' sake, didn't you answer, Yerba?" asked the shorter
girl.

"Oh, I hate him!" responded Yerba. "He only wanted to bore me