d
kinsmen," he began calmly, "it was with the intention of formally
embracing the habits, customs, and spirit of American institutions by
certain methods of renunciation of the past, as became a caballero of
honor and resolution. Those methods may possibly be known to some of
you." He paused for a moment as if to allow the members of his family
to look unconscious. "Since then, in the wisdom of God, it has
occurred to me that my purpose may be as honorably effected by a
discreet blending of the past and the present--in a word, by the
judicious combination of the interests of my native people and the
American nation. In consideration of that purpose, friends and
kinsmen, I ask you to join me in drinking the good health of my host
Senor Jenkinson, my future father-in-law, from whom I have to-day had
the honor to demand the hand of the peerless Polly, his daughter, as
the future mistress of the Rancho of the Blessed Innocents."

The marriage took place shortly after. Nor was the free will and
independence of Don Jose Sepulvida in the least opposed by his
relations. Whether they felt they had already committed themselves, or
had hopes in the future, did not transpire. Enough that the escapade
of a week was tacitly forgotten. The only allusion ever made to the
bridegroom's peculiarities was drawn from the demure lips of the bride
herself on her installation at the "Blessed Innocents."

"And what, little one, didst thou find in me to admire?" Don Jose had
asked tenderly.

"Oh, you seemed to be so much like that dear old Don Quixote, you
know," she answered demurely.

"Don Quixote," repeated Don Jose with gentle gravity. "But, my child,
that was only a mere fiction--a romance, of one Cervantes. Believe me,
of a truth there never was any such person!"

A SECRET OF TELEGRAPH HILL

I.

As Mr. Herbert Bly glanced for the first time at the house which was to
be his future abode in San Francisco, he was somewhat startled. In
that early period of feverish civic improvement the street before it
had been repeatedly graded and lowered until the dwelling--originally a
pioneer suburban villa perched upon a slope of Telegraph Hill--now
stood sixty feet above the sidewalk, superposed like some Swiss chalet
on successive galleries built in the sand-hill, and connected by a
half-dozen distinct zigzag flights of wooden staircase. Stimulated,
however, by the thought that the view from the top would be a fine one,
an