nd on again at seven in the evening. The meals in
the dining-room, naturally the darkest room in the house, were eaten in
absolute silence. In fact, it was seldom that anyone spoke except on
Mrs. Yorba's reception day. Herself wore the air of a stoic. Don
Roberto's keen eyes searched his wife and daughter now and again for any
sign of extravagance in attire, but he rarely addressed them except on
the first of the month, when he demanded their accounts. He peremptorily
forbade them to go out after dusk, as the night air was bad for the
horses. The evenings he spent in his study with his brother-in-law. Mrs.
Yorba and Magdalena sat in their respective rooms until nearly half-past
ten; when Don Roberto went the rounds to see that the lights were out.
Were it not for his fear of earthquakes, he would have turned off the
gas at that hour, but he permitted a tiny spark to burn in the halls all
night. Occasionally Mr. Polk came home early and went to Magdalena's
little sitting-room, the old schoolroom, and sat with her for an hour or
two. He said little and never talked of himself. She longed to bring her
aunt back to this lonely old man, but did not know in the least how to
go about it, and the subject never was mentioned between them; he might
have been a bachelor or a widower. But as he sat staring into the fire,
Magdalena was convinced that he was thinking of his wife. She had never
entered his house since the day of her strange discovery; delicacy kept
her away, but her feminine curiosity often tempted her to go in and see
if the fires were burning, the flowers and magazines on the table.
Sometimes at night she heard footsteps in the connecting gardens behind
the houses, and fancied they were those of her uncle, gone on what
pilgrimage she dared not imagine.

She and Helena met again early in November. They greeted each other with
all their old cordiality, but there was a barrier, and both felt it.
Still, they exchanged frequent visits, and Magdalena was always
interested in Helena's new conquests and dazzling regalities. Helena was
enjoying herself mightily. She had all her old admirers exhausting and
coining adjectives at her feet, and a number of distinguished
foreigners, who were spending the winter in San Francisco. She could not
drive, nor yacht, nor run to fires on account of the weather, but she
unloosed her energies upon indoor society, and started a cotillion club,
and an amateur opera company. She gave a fancy d