me evidences of taste and refinement in the vines that
clambered over its porch, in its French windows, and the white muslin
curtains that kept out the fierce California sun by day, and were now
touched with silver in the gracious moonlight. Culpepper leaned against
the low fence, and gazed long and earnestly at the building. Then the
moonlight vanished ghostlike from one of the windows, a material glow
took its place, and a girlish figure, holding a candle, drew the white
curtains together. To Culpepper it was a vestal virgin standing before
a hallowed shrine; to the prosaic observer I fear it was only a
fair-haired young woman, whose wicked black eyes still shone with
unfilial warmth. Howbeit, when the figure had disappeared he stepped
out briskly into the moonlight of the high-road. Here he took off his
distinguishing hat to wipe his forehead, and the moon shone full upon
his face.

It was not an unprepossessing one, albeit a trifle too thin and lank and
bilious to be altogether pleasant. The cheek-bones were prominent,
and the black eyes sunken in their orbits. Straight black hair fell
slantwise off a high but narrow forehead, and swept part of a hollow
cheek. A long black mustache followed the perpendicular curves of his
mouth. It was on the whole a serious, even Quixotic face, but at
times it was relieved by a rare smile of such tender and even pathetic
sweetness, that Miss Jo is reported to have said that, if it would only
last through the ceremony, she would have married its possessor on the
spot. "I once told him so," added that shameless young woman; "but the
man instantly fell into a settled melancholy, and hasn't smiled since."

A half-mile below the Folinsbee Ranch the white road dipped and was
crossed by a trail that ran through Madrono hollow. Perhaps because it
was a near cut-off to the settlement, perhaps from some less practical
reason, Culpepper took this trail, and in a few moments stood among the
rarely beautiful trees that gave their name to the valley. Even in that
uncertain light the weird beauty of these harlequin masqueraders was
apparent; their red trunks--a blush in the moonlight, a deep blood-stain
in the shadow--stood out against the silvery green foliage. It was as
if Nature in some gracious moment had here caught and crystallized the
gypsy memories of the transplanted Spaniard, to cheer him in his lonely
exile.

As Culpepper entered the grove he heard loud voices. As he turned toward
a