better fitted for tragedy than for this little comedy of life in the
Californias. A sovereignty would suit her,--were it not for her eyes.
They are not quite so calm and just and inexorable as the rest of
her face. She would not even make a good household tyrant, like Doña
Jacoba Duncan. Unquestionably she is religious, and swaddled in all
the traditions of her race; but her eyes,--they are at odds with all
the rest of her. They are not lovely eyes; they lack softness and
languor and tractability; their expression changes too often, and they
mirror too much intelligence for loveliness, but they never will be
old eyes, and they never will cease to look. And they are the eyes
best worth looking into that I have ever seen. No, a sovereignty would
not suit her at all; a salon might. But, like a few of us, she is some
years ahead of her sphere. Glory be to the Californias--of the future,
when we are dirt, and our children have found the gold!"

The baby was nearly baptized by the time he had finished his
soliloquy. She had kicked alarmingly when the salt was laid on her
tongue, and squalled under the deluge of water which gave her her name
and also wet Chonita's sleeve. The godmother longed for the ceremony
to be over; but it was more protracted than usual, owing to the
importance of the restless object on the pillow in her weary arms.
When the last word was said, she handed pillow and baby to the nurse
with a fervent sigh of relief which made her appear girlish and
natural.

After Estenega had lifted her to her horse he dried her sleeve
with his handkerchief. He lingered over the task; the cavalcade and
populace went on without them, and when they started they were in the
rearward of the blithesome crowd.