here seemed no other climax. The
cavalcade rode beneath her windows once more, with their untired
laughter, their splendid vitality. They scattered to their rooms to don
their bright evening gowns, then went to the dining room and feasted.

After supper Francisca unlocked Elena's door and entered with a little
tray on her hand. Elena refused to eat, but her sister's presence roused
her, and she turned her face to the wall and burst into tears.

"Nonsense!" said Francisca, kindly. "Do not cry, my sister. What is
a lover? The end of a little flirtation? My father will find thee a
husband--a strong fair English husband like mine. Dost thou not prefer
blondes to brunettes, my sister? I am sorry my mother beat thee, but she
has such a sense of her duty. She did it for thy good, my Elena. Let me
dress thee in thy new gown, the white silk with the pale blue flowers.
It is high in the neck and long in the sleeves, and will hide the marks
of the whip. Come down and play cascarones and dance until dawn and
forget all about it."

But Elena only wept on, and Francisca left her for more imperative
duties.

The next day the girl still refused to eat, although Dona Jacoba opened
her mouth and poured a cup of chocolate down her throat. Late in the
afternoon Santiago slipped into the room and bent over her.

"Elena," he whispered hurriedly. "Look! I have a note for thee."

Elena sat upright on the bed, and he thrust a piece of folded paper into
her hand. "Here it is. He is in San Luis Obispo and says he will stay
there. Remember it is but a few miles away. My--"

Elena sank back with a cry, and Santiago blasphemed in English. Dona
Jacoba unlocked her daughter's hand, took the note, and led Santiago
from the room. When she reached her own, she opened a drawer and handed
him a canvas bag full of gold.

"Go to San Francisco and enjoy yourself," she said. "Interfere no
farther between your sister and your parents, unless you prefer that
reata to gold. Your craft cannot outwit mine, and she will read no
notes. You are a foolish boy to set your sense against your mother's. I
may seem harsh to my children, but I strive on my knees for their good.
And when I have made up my mind that a thing is right to do, you know
that my nature is of iron. No child of mine shall marry a lazy vagabond
who can do nothing but lie in a hammock and bet and gamble and make
love. And a half-breed! Mother of God! Now go to San Francisco, and send
for more m