man walked with wings on his feet and a song in his
heart; when the past was done with, the future
mattered not, the present with its ever changing
hues on bay and hill, its cool electrical breezes stir-
ring imagination and pulse, was all in all.

And it was in San Francisco's springtime that
Concha Arguello made chocolate for the Russian
to whom she was to give a niche in the history of
her land; and sang at her task. She whirled the
molinillo in each cup as it was filled, whipping the
fragrant liquid to froth; pausing only to scold when
her servant stained one of the dainty saucers or
cups. Poor Rosa did not sing, although the spring
attuned her broken spirit to a gentler melancholy
than when the winds howled and the fog was cold
in her marrow. She had been sentenced by the last
Governor, the wise Borica, to eight years of domes-
tic servitude in the house of Don Jose Arguello for
abetting her lover in the murder of his wife. Con-
cha, thoughtless in many things, did what she could
to exorcise the terror and despair that stared from
the eyes of the Indian and puzzled her deeply. Rosa
adored her young mistress and exulted even when
Concha's voice rose in wrath; for was not she
noticed by the loveliest senorita in all the Cali-
fornias, while others, envious and spiteful to a poor
girl no worse than themselves, were ignored?

Concha's cheeks were as pink as the Castilian