innocent as a cat gorged with canary birds. Mr. Sealman was so sure that
nothing could or would go wrong ever again that Angela had no heart to
receive him coldly.

They started off for a run through bungalow-land, and the Model conducted
itself like a newly converted sinner.

"I've been thinking out a dandy plan, while I was tinkering on the auto,"
remarked Mr. Sealman in an engaging manner. "What do you say to doing a
tour of the Missions? You know, I guess, there's a chain of 'em, and the
fine thing it would be to see the lot by road! I tell you, this little
auto's going to be all right--all right. It'd be the best kind of a stunt
for a lady from Europe; and if the papers got hold of it, I bet they'd
give us a bang-up notice--a photo too, maybe, you could send your friends
on the other side."

Angela shuddered. She could hardly bear even to hear this proposal from
the codfish, for a pilgrimage to the Missions of California had been a
dream of Franklin Merriam's. He and she were to have followed the
footsteps of the Franciscan Fathers, stage by stage; and if a Mission here
or there were falling into ruin, Merriam had talked of offering to restore
it at his own expense. Now the money had gone to restore the Palazzo di
Sereno, and to buy motors and aeroplanes and ladies' favours for the
Prince of that name. Yet some day Angela meant to make the pilgrimage,
when she had built her house and given herself a starting-point.

"I've other things to do," she replied coldly. "I shall see only the
Missions I may happen to pass on this tour."

"Well, some folks'd ruther save this trip for a weddin' journey," Sealman