with the Favorita of her year. That was six years
ago and never a word had come from Madrid. Luis
was faithful, but men were men, and girls grew
older every day. So the wise Rafaella was alter-
nately indifferent and alluring, the object of more
admiration than a maid could always repel, yet with
wells of sentiment that only one man could dis-
cover. And the American was patient, and even
had he known, would not in the least have minded
the use she made of him. He still could look at
Concha Arguello.

William Sturgis had sailed in one of his father's
ships, now six years ago, from Boston in search of
health. The ship in a dense fog had gone on the
rocks in the straits between the Farallones and
the Bay of San Francisco. He alone, and after
long hours of struggle with the wicked currents,
not even knowing in what direction land might be,
was flung, senseless, on the shore below the Fort.
For the next month he was an invalid in the house
of the Commandante. Fortunately, his papers and
money were sewn in an oilskin belt and his father's
name was well known in California. Moreover,
there never was a more likable youth. His illness
interested all the matrons and maids of the Presidio
in his fate; when he recovered, his good dancing
and unselfishness gave him a permanent place in the
regard of the women, while his entire absence of
beauty, and his ability to hold his own in the mess