down in the south where the sun shone all the year
round and he could ride half the day with his
vaqueros after the finest cattle in the country. He
should never marry because he could not marry
Concha Arguello, but he could think of her, see her
sometimes; and in a land where a man was neither
frozen in winter nor grilled in summer, where life
could be led in the open, and the tendency was to
idle and dream, domestic happiness called on a
feebler note than in less equable climes. In his
heart he was desperately jealous of Concha's fav-
ored cavaliers, but it was a jealousy without hatred,
and his kind, earnest, often humorous eyes, were
always assuring his lady of an imperishable desire
to serve her without reward. Of course Concha
treated him with as little consideration as so humble
a swain deserved; but in her heart she liked him bet-
ter than either Castro or Sal, for he talked to her
of something besides rodeos and balls, racing and
cock-fights; he had taught her English and lent her
many books. Moreover, he neither sighed nor lan-
guished, nor ever had sung at her grating. But
she regarded him merely as an intelligence, a well
of refreshment in her stagnant life, never as a man.

"Rose," she said, as she caught her hair into a
high golden comb that had been worn in Spain by
many a beauty of the house of Moraga, and spiked
the knot with two long pins globed at the end with
gold, while the maid fastened her slippers and