The crystalline, amber air was like wine; the mountains were a mosaic of
color; the trees burned red and yellow, glowing torches of autumn, and
accentuating all their ephemeral and regal splendor; among them, yet
never of them, were the green austere pines marching in their serried
ranks, on, on up the hillsides to timber line.

One day, as Pearl and Flick rode among the hills, a flood of sunlight
falling about them, crimson and yellow leaves blowing on the wind, she
expressed, for the first time, an interest in the desert and a desire to
see it again.

"I'll have to go back sometime, Bob, I suppose," she said, "if it's only
to see Lolita."

"I nearly brought her up with me," he said. "I thought maybe she'd stand
it all right for a day or two; then I got afraid she'd sicken right away
in this rare air, and I didn't dare."

"I guess so," sighed Pearl; "but, goodness! I'd sure like to see her
again. I'd most give anything to hear her say, 'mi jasmin, Pearl, mi
corazon.'"

"We understand each other, you and me and Lolita," returned Flick. "We
all got the South in us, I reckon that's why."

"Maybe," she answered. "Yes, I'd like to see Lolita and mother. She
won't leave her chickens and melons and sweet potatoes and all long
enough to come up here, and, oh, there's times when I feel like I'd most
give my eyes to see the desert again; but I couldn't stand it yet, Bob,
not yet."