bursting wildly into tears flung herself into her
brother's arms. "But I never could leave you! And
my father! my mother! all! all! Ay, Dios de mi
alma! what an ingrate I am! I should die of home-
sickness! My Santiago! My Santiago!"

Santiago patted her philosophically. "You are
not going to-morrow," he reminded her. "Don't
cross your bridges until you come to them. That is
a good proverb for maids and men. You might
take us all with you, or spend every third year or so
in California. No doubt you would need the rest.
And meanwhile remember that the high and mighty
Chamberlain has not yet asked for the honor of an
alliance with the house of Arguello, and that your
brother will match his best fighting cock against
your new white lace mantilla from Mexico, that
he is not meditating any project so detrimental to
his fortunes. Console yourself with the reflection
that if he were, our father and the priests, and the
Governor himself, would die of apoplexy. He is a
heretic--a member of the Greek Church! Hast thou
lost thy reason, Conchita? Dry your eyes and
come home to sleep, and let us hear no more of
marriage with a man who is not only a barbarian of
the north and a heretic, but so proud he does not
think a Californian good enough to wash his
decks."