first visit to the Rancho Palomar, although her father and mother and
the servants had been occupying the Farrel hacienda for the past two
months. Of the beauty of that valley, of the charm of that ancient
seat, she had heard much from her parents; if they could be so
enthusiastic about it in two short months, how tremendously attached to
it must be this cheerful Don Mike, who had been born and raised there,
who was familiar with every foot of it, and doubtless cherished every
tradition connected with it. He had imagination, and in imaginative
people wounds drive deep and are hard to heal; he loved this land of
his, not with the passive loyalty of the average American citizen, but
with the strange, passionate intensity of the native Californian for
his state. She had met many Californians, and, in this one particular,
they had all been alike. No matter how far they had wandered from the
Golden West, no matter how long or how pleasant had been their exile,
they yearned, with a great yearning, for that intangible something that
all Californians feel but can never explain--which is found nowhere
save in this land of romance and plenty, of hearty good will, of life
lived without too great effort, and wherein the desire to play gives
birth to that large and kindly tolerance that is the unfailing
sweetener of all human association.

And Don Mike was hurrying home to a grave in the valley, to a home no
longer his, to the shock of finding strangers ensconced in the seat of
his prideful ancestors, to the prospect of seeing the rich acres that
should have been his giving sustenance to an alien race, while he must
turn to a brutal world for his daily bread earned by the sweat of his
brow.

Curiously enough, in that moment, without having given very much
thought to the subject, she decided that she must help him bear it. In