her aunt. It was still raining, but
calmly. There was no gay and chattering crowd in Market Street, not even
the light of a cable car flashing through the grey drizzle. Magdalena
recalled the night of the fire. Her inner life had undergone many
upheavals since that night; even her feeling for Helena was changed. And
her aunt was a mere memory.

At the station she left the carriage and walked along the platform as
the train drew in. Mrs. Polk, assisted by a Mexican maid, descended from
the car. She was very stout, but as she approached Magdalena, it was
evident that her carriage had lost nothing of majesty or grace. She
kissed her niece warmly.

"So good you are to come for me, _mijita_. And when rain, too--so
horriblee San Francisco. Never I want to see again. And the uncle? how
he is?"

"He says he will live until you come; but he won't live long after."

"Poor man! I am sorry he go so soon. But all the mens die early in
California now: work so hard. Live very old before the Americanos
coming."

They could talk without restraint in the carriage, for the maid did not
speak English; but Mrs. Polk merely asked how her husband had caught
cold. Her fair placid face and sleepy eyes showed no print of the years.
She seemed glad to see Magdalena again.

"Often I wish have you with me in Santa Barbara," she said. "But Roberto
is what the Americanos call 'crank.' No is use asking him. Santa Barbara
no is like in the old time, but is nice sleep place, where no have the
neuralgia, and nothing to bother. Then always I have the few old
families that are left, and we are so friends,--see each other every
day, and eat the Spanish dishes. I no know any Americanos; always I
hating them. So thin you are, _mijita_; I wish I can take you back."

But Magdalena felt no desire to go with her; her aunt seemed to belong
to another life.

When they reached home, Mrs. Polk went to Mrs. Yorba's room to remove
her wraps and drink a cup of chocolate. She smoothed her beautiful dusky
hair and arranged the old-fashioned lace about her throat, then sailed
in all her languid majesty across the hall.

"Aunt," said Magdalena, with her hand on the door of the sick room,
"will--will--you kiss uncle?"

Mrs. Polk raised her eyebrows. "Why, yes, is he wanting; but I never
kiss him in my life. Why now?"

"He is dying, and he has wanted you more than anything."

"So queer fancies the seeck people have. But I kiss him, of course."

As she entered