er they wandered about, "seeing the sights," one after
another. They paid their respects to the monument of Father Juniperra
Serra, who landed at Monterey with his soldiers a hundred and forty years
ago--a long time in America, where life moves quickly. Then, next in
interest, came the verandaed Custom House, built under Spanish rule, and
looking just the place to spend a lazy afternoon in gossiping about lovely
ladies, and pretending to do important business for the Crown. There was
the oldest Court-house in California, too, and the oldest brick house, and
the oldest frame building--"brought round the Horn"; the oldest theatre,
glorified by Jenny Lind's singing; and, indeed, all the oldest old things
to be found anywhere in history or romance. But, though Angela dared not
say so, she wondered what had become of the really old things, new in the
beginning of the seventeenth century when Don Sebastian Viscanio landed to
name the town--in honour of Philip the Third--Monterey or "King of the
Mountains."

That night they all walked together under the great trees of the park at
Del Monte. A lake (where black swans threaded their way like dark spirits
among white water-lilies) drank the last light of day, and little waves
the swans made were ruffled with dim silver. Above, the sky was another
deep blue lake lilied with stars; and as darkness fell, hot and
sweet-scented as the veil of an Eastern woman, slowly the boundaries were
lost between forest and garden. Outlines faded and blended into one
another. The fuchsias, big as babies' fists, the poppies like dolls' crepe
sunbonnets, the roses large enough for nightingales' nests, lost their
colour, and seemed to go out in the dark, like brilliant bubbles that
break into nothingness. Here and there yellow light flashed near the
ground, far from the walkers, as if a faint firefly were astray in a
tangle of flowers. Chinese gardeners, deft and mysterious as brownies,
were working at night to change the arrangement of flower-beds so that the
dwellers in the hotel should have a surprise by day.

Theo Dene talked of Carmen Gaylor, telling stories she had heard of the
rich widow from people whose acquaintance she had first made at Del Monte.
"I am longing to meet the woman," she said; "I think she must be an
interesting character, typically Spanish, or Mexican--or, anyhow, not
American--from what they all say. A beauty--vain and jealous, and a
fearful temper. I shouldn't like to interf