ult of you," she said, in a broken English that seemed as
much infantine as foreign. "What for you not remain to yourself in your
own CASA? So it come. You creep so--in the dark--and shake my wall, and
I fall. And she," pointing to the guitar, "is a'most broke! And for all
thees I have only make to you a serenade. Ingrate!"

"I beg your pardon," said Masterton quickly, "but I was curious. I
thought I might help you, and--"

"Make yourself another cat on the wall, eh? No; one is enough, thank
you!"

A frown lowered on Masterton's brow. "You don't understand me," he said,
bluntly. "I did not know WHO was here."

"Ah, BUENO! Then it is Pepita Ramirez, you see," she said, tapping her
bodice with one little finger, "all the same; the niece from Manuel
Garcia, who keeps the Mission garden and lif there. And you?"

"My name is Masterton."

"How mooch?"

"Masterton," he repeated.

She tried to pronounce it once or twice desperately, and then shook her
little head so violently that a yellow rose fastened over her ear fell
to the ground. But she did not heed it, nor the fact that Masterton had
picked it up.

"Ah, I cannot!" she said, poutingly. "It is as deefeecult to make go as
my guitar with your serenade."

"Can you not say 'Stephen Masterton'?" he asked, more gently, with a
returning and forgiving sense of her childishness.

"Es-stefen? Ah, ESTEBAN! Yes; Don Esteban! BUENO! Then, Don Esteban,
what for you sink so melank-olly one night, and one night so fierce? The
melank-olly, he ees not so bad; but the fierce--ah! he is weeked! Ess it
how the Americano make always his serenade?"

Masterton's brow again darkened. And his hymn of exultation had been
mistaken by these people--by this--this wanton child!

"It was no serenade," he replied, curtly; "it was in the praise of the
Lord!"

"Of how mooch?"

"Of the Lord of Hosts--of the Almighty in Heaven." He lifted his long
arms reverently on high.

"Oh!" she said, with a frightened look, slightly edging away from the
wall. At a secure distance she stopped. "Then you are a soldier, Don
Esteban?"

"No!"

"Then what for you sink 'I am a soldier of the Lord,' and you will make
die 'in His army'? Oh, yes; you have said." She gathered up her guitar
tightly under her arm, shook her small finger at him gravely, and said,
"You are a hoombog, Don Esteban; good a' night," and began to glide
away.

"One moment, Miss--Miss Ramirez," called Masterton. "I--that is you--yo