morous eyes,
were always assuring his lady of an imperishable desire to serve her
without reward. Of course Concha treated him with as little
consideration as so humble a swain deserved; but in her heart she liked
him better than either Castro or Sal, for he talked to her of something
besides rodeos and balls, racing and cock-fights; he had taught her
English and lent her many books. Moreover, he neither sighed nor
languished, nor ever had sung at her grating. But she regarded him
merely as an intelligence, a well of refreshment in her stagnant life,
never as a man.

"Rose," she said, as she caught her hair into a high golden comb that
had been worn in Spain by many a beauty of the house of Moraga, and
spiked the knot with two long pins globed at the end with gold, while
the maid fastened her slippers and smoothed the pink silk stockings
over the thin instep above; "what is a lover like? Is it like meeting
one of the saints of heaven?"

"No, senorita."

"Like what, then?"

"Like--like nothing but himself, senorita. You would not have him
otherwise."

"Oh, stupid one! Hast thou no imagination? Fancy any man being well
enough as he is! For instance, there is Don Antonio, who is so
handsome and fiery, and Don Ignacio, who can sing and dance and ride as
no one else in all the Californias, and Don Weeliam Sturgis, who is
very clever and true. If I could roll them into one--a tamale of corn
and chicken and peppers--there would be a man almost to my liking. But
even then--not quite. And one man--what nonsense! I have too much
color to-night, Rosa."

"No, senorita, you have never been so beautiful. When the lover comes
and you love him, senorita, you will think him greater than our natural
king and lord, and all other men poor Indians."

"But how shall I know?"

"Your heart will tell you, senorita."

"My heart? My father and my mother will choose for me a husband whom I
shall love as all other women love their husbands--just enough and no
more. Then--I suppose--I shall never know?"

"Would you marry at your parents' bidding, like a child, senorita? I
do not think you would."

Concha looked at the girl in astonishment, but with a greater
astonishment she suddenly realized that she would not. Even her little
fingers stiffened in a rush of personality, of passionate resentment
against the shackles bound by the ages about the feminine ego. Her
individuality, long budding, burst into flower; her eyes