centre-table, he loved to lay his lash. Samples of maize scattered
its grains over a silk sofa which the young ladies tried to keep very
choice, as though they feared it might break.

Near the entrance to the dining room was a weighing machine, and
Madariaga became furious when his daughters asked him to remove it to
the offices. He was not going to trouble himself to go outside every
time that he wanted to know the weight of a leather skin! . . . A piano
came into the ranch, and Elena passed the hours practising exercises
with desperate good will. "Heavens and earth! She might at least play
the Jota or the Perican, or some other lively Spanish dance!" And
the irate father, at the hour of siesta, betook himself to the nearby
eucalyptus trees, to sleep upon his poncho.

This younger daughter whom he dubbed La Romantica, was the special
victim of his wrath and ridicule. Where had she picked up so many tastes
which he and his good China never had had? Music books were piled on the
piano. In a corner of the absurd parlor were some wooden boxes that had
held preserves, which the ranch carpenter had been made to press into
service as a bookcase.

"Look here, Frenchy," scoffed Madariaga. "All these are novels and
poems! Pure lies! . . . Hot air!"

He had his private library, vastly more important and glorious, and
occupying less space. In his desk, adorned with guns, thongs, and chaps
studded with silver, was a little compartment containing deeds and
various legal documents which the ranchman surveyed with great pride.

"Pay attention, now and hear marvellous things," announced the master to