imaginings of all that has scourged
me since? Would I have thanked anyone for opening my eyes? And the
positive is the one thing that grips the memory. It is as well to have
what high lights one can.

She had raised her head and was looking at him expectantly.

"Certainly," he said. "He should go on, by all means. Love of an art
presupposes a certain degree of talent."--May Heaven forgive me for that
lie, he thought.

She detected his lack of spontaneity, but attributed it to the fact that
he had not guessed her personal interest in the question. "Have you met
many literary people?" she asked. "But of course you must. Did you like
them very much?"

"I have inquired carefully, and ascertained that there are none in
Menlo. If there were, I should not think twice about the Mark Smith
place."

Magdalena felt herself burning to her hair. She glanced at him quickly,
but he averted his eyes and called her attention to a magnificent oak
whose limbs trailed on the ground. Should I tell him? she thought, every
nerve quaking. _Should_ I? Then she set her lips in scorn. He spoke of
"literary" people, she continued. It will be many a day before I am
that. Meanwhile, as Helena would say, what he doesn't know won't hurt
him.

He had no intention of letting her make any such confidences. "Tell me,"
he said. "I have heard something of the old Spanish families of
California. You, of course, belong to them. That is what gives you your
delightful individuality. I should like to hear something of that old
life. Of course it interests you?"

"Oh, I love it,--at least, I loved it once. My aunt, my father's sister,
used to talk constantly of that time, but I have no one to talk to of it
now; she has lived in Santa Barbara for the last three years. She told
me many stories of that time. It must have been wonderful."

He drew one leg across the horse's neck and brought him to a stand. They
had entered the backwoods and were walking their horses. The groom was
nowhere to be seen. He was, in fact, awaiting them at the edge of the
woods, his beast tethered, himself prone, the ring-master of a tarantula
fight.

"Tell me those stories," commanded Trennahan. He knew they would bore
him, but the girl was very interesting.

Magdalena began the story of Ysabel Herrara. At first she stumbled, and
was obliged to begin no less than three times, but when fairly started
she told it very well. Many of her aunt's vivid picturesque phrases
sprang f