ion, and had at last arrived upon the scene. The front
gate had finally broken, the upper hinge worn out; Ignacio carefully
set the ramshackly wooden affair back against the fence, thinking how
one of these days he would repair it. Then he went between the bigger
pear-tree and the _lluvia de oro_ which his own hands had planted
here, and stood with legs well apart considering the three bells upon
the easterly arch.

"_Que hay, amigos_?" he greeted them. "Do you know what I am going to
do for you some fine day? I will build a little roof over you that
runs down both ways to shut out the water when it rains. It will make
you hoarse, too much wet."

That was one of the few dreams of Ignacio's life; one day he was going
to make a little roof over each arch. But to-day he merely regarded
affectionately the Captain . . . that was the biggest of the
bells . . . the Dancer, second in size, and Lolita, the smallest upon
this arch. Then he sighed and turned toward the other arch across the
garden to see how it was with the Little One, La Golondrina, and
Ignacio Chavez. For it was only fair that at least one of the six
should bear his name.

Changing his direction thus, moving directly toward the dropping sun,
he shifted his hat well over his eyes and so was constrained to note
how the weeds were asserting themselves with renewed insolence. He
muttered a soft "_maldito_!" at them which might have been mistaken
for a caress and determined upon a merciless campaign of extermination
just as soon as he could have fitted a new handle to his hoe. Then he
paused in front of the Mission steps and lifted his hat, made an
elegant bow, and smiled in his own inimitable, remarkably fascinating
way. For, under the ragged brim, his eyes had caught a glimpse of a
pretty pair of patent-leather slippers, a prettier pair of
black-stockinged ankles, and the hem of a white starched skirt.

Nowhere are there eyes like the eyes of old Mexico. Deep and soft and
soulful, though the man himself may have a soul like a bit of charred
leather; velvety and tender, though they may belong to an out-and-out
cutthroat; expressive, eloquent even, though they are the eyes of a
peon with no mind to speak of; night-black, and like the night filled
with mystery. Ignacio Chavez lifted such eyes to the eyes of the girl
who had been watching him and spontaneously gave her the last iota of
his ready admiration.

"It is a fine day, senorita," he told her,