miracles, and it was a matter of honor among those
that preceded their friends to abet the parents in a
custom which assuredly did not err on the side of
ugliness. Concha had a larger vocabulary than
other Californians of her sex, for she had read
many books, and if never a novel, she knew some-
thing of poetry. Sturgis had filled the sala with
the sonorous roll of his favorite masters and it had
pleased her ear; but the language of passion had
been so many beautiful words, neither vibrating nor
lingering in her consciousness. But the rude expres-
sion of the miserable woman at her feet, whose
sobs grew more uncontrollable every moment, made
it forever impossible that she should prattle again
as she had to Santiago and Rezanov in the last day
and night; and although she felt as if straining her
eyes in the dark, her cheeks burned once more, and
she rose uneasily and walked to the window.

She returned in a moment and stood over Rosa,
but her voice when she spoke had lost its hoarseness
and was cold and irritated.

"Control thyself," she said. "And go and bathe
thine eyes. Wouldst look like a tomato when it is
time to pass the dulces and wines? And think no
more of thy lover until he can come out of prison
and marry thee." She drew herself away as the
woman attempted to clutch her skirts. "Go," she
said. "The musicians are tuning."