added hastily, as Don Roberto reclined suddenly and turned to her, "that
young men are a nuisance. I am thinking of writing a book of advice--"

"A book!" cried Don Roberto, his brows rushing together. "You no write
the books?"

"Of course she would never publish," interposed Tiny. "She would just
write it for our amusement. I think it would be so horrid to publish the
_cleverest_ book," she said, turning to Magdalena, unmistakable
sincerity in her voice. "It has always seemed to me so--so--_horrid_ for
women to write things to print--for _anybody_ to read."

Magdalena did not answer her. She was staring at her father, breathless
for his next words.

"The ladies never write," announced that grandson of old Spain. "Nor the
gentlemens. Always the common peoples write the books."

"Oh, it's better now, really," said Rose. "Some people that write are
said to be quite nice. Of course, one doesn't meet them in society,--in
San Francisco society, at least,--but that may be the fault of society."

"Of course," said Tiny. "I do not mean that people who write must be
horrid. But I think I couldn't know a woman who made her name so
public,--I mean if I hadn't been fond of her before; but I should really
_hate_ to see a friend's name in print. You are not really thinking of
writing a book, are you, Rose, dear?"

"I have not the slightest idea of writing a book--for the very good
reason that I haven't brains enough. You needn't worry about any of us
adding to the glory of California--unless, to be sure, 'Lena should be
clever enough."

She spoke at random, and Magdalena's face did not betray her; but she
almost hated the girl who was forcing her to another of her mental
crises.

"My daughter write!" shouted Don Roberto. "A Yorba! She make a fool de
my name like the play-actor that do the monkey tricks on the stage? Si
she do that--"

"Here comes Mr. Trennahan," said Magdalena, standing up. "Mamma is not
here. I must go to meet him."

Trennahan threw the reins to his groom and sprang out of the cart. "I
could not wait till evening, you see," he said, as he came up the steps.
"What is the matter? Something has gone wrong with you."

She shivered. "Yes. Something. I cannot tell you."

"Can we have our ride to-morrow?"

"Yes, I can ride with you. Don't, d-don't--"

"Yes?"

"Don't talk to me when you get round there."

"I won't; and I won't let them talk to you."

Something _has_ gone wrong, he thought. She looks l