ciation." And he handed the
messenger a five-dollar bill. The don was a proud man, and disliked
being under obligation to the Tony Morenos of this world. Tony
protested, but the don stood his ground, silently insistent, and, in
the end, the other pouched the bill, and rode away. Don Miguel seated
himself once more beside his retainer and drew forth the telegram.

"It must be evil news," he murmured, with the shade of a tremor in his
musical voice; "otherwise, that fellow could not have felt so much pity
for me that it moved him to decline a gratuity."

"Read, Don Miguel!" Pablo croaked. "Read!"

Don Miguel read. Then he carefully folded the telegram and replaced it
in the envelope; as deliberately, he returned the envelope to his
pocket. Suddenly his hands gripped the bench, and he trembled
violently.

"Don Mike is dead?" old Pablo queried softly. He possessed all the
acute intuition of a primitive people.

Don Miguel did not reply; so presently Pablo turned his head and gazed
up into the master's face. Then he knew--his fingers trembled slightly
as he returned to work on the hondo, and, for a long time, no sound
broke the silence save the song of an oriole in the catalpa tree.

Suddenly, the sound for which old Pablo had waited so long burst forth
from the sage-clad hillside. It was a cock quail calling, and, to the
majordomo, it seemed to say: "Don Mike! Come home! Don Mike! Come
home!"

"Ah, little truant, who has told you that you are safe?" Pablo cried in
agony. "For Don Mike shall not come home--no, no--never any more!"

His Indian stoicism broke at last; he clasped his hands and fell to his
knees beside the bench, sobbing aloud.

Don Miguel regarded him not, and when Pablo's babbling became
incoherent, the aged master of Palomar controlled his twitching hands
sufficiently to roll and light a cigarette. Then he reread the
telegram.

Yes; it was true. It was from Washington, and signed by the
adjutant-general; it informed Don Miguel Jose Farrel, with regret, that
his son, First Sergeant Miguel Jose Maria Federico Noriaga Farrel,
Number 765,438, had been killed in action in Siberia on the fourth
instant.

"At least," the old don murmured, "he died like a gentleman. Had he
returned to the Rancho Palomar, he could not have continued to live
like one. Oh, my son, my son!"

He rose blindly and groped his way along the wall until he came to the
inset gate leading into the patio; like a s