as yet!--the more faithful and contented will they
be, in the prospect of the luxuries and the toys and
the trinkets of the Russian north. What is one girl
against the friendship of Russia for Spain? Who
am I that I should weigh a peseta in the scale?"

"You are Concha Arguello, the flower of all the
maidens in California, and the daughter of the best
of our men," replied Father Abella musingly. "And
until to-day there has been no Catholic more de-
vout--"

"It lies with you, mi padre, whether I continue
to be the best of Catholics or become the most
abandoned of heretics. You know me better than
anyone. You know that I will not weaken and
bend and submit, like a thousand other women. I
could be bad--bad--bad--and I will be! Do you
hear?" And she shook his arm violently, while her
hoarse voice filled the church.

"My child! My child! I have always believed
that you had it in you to become a saint. Yes, yes,
I feel the strength and maturity of your nature, I
know the lengths to which it might lead another;
but you could not be bad, Conchita. I have known
many women. In you alone have I perceived the
capacity for spiritual exaltation. You are the stuff
of which saints and martyrs are made. The vio-
lent will, the transcendent passions--they have