himself to use his good steeds every day. This had occurred in the
spring following the poor harvest.

Some weeks later, about six months before our story opens, another
disaster befell these two unfortunate ones. One night, Benito and Maria
had been awakened by a terrible uproar in their chicken house. Benito
rushed out to find it in flames. Some traveler passing, after smoking a
cigarette, had, most likely, carelessly thrown the burning stub among
the inflammable boards and loose stuff of the enclosure. Benito did what
he could to rescue the hens and chickens, but of all of his flock, he
saved a mere score. This last calamity was almost more than Maria could
bear. The hens had been her especial care. She had, under her skillful
tending, seen the flock increase from the small nucleus of a dozen,
which Benito had bought and given her on her coming to his home, a few
days after they were married, to over one hundred. These hens had been
the source of no small profit, and by their means Benito was able to put
aside a little nest egg each year. And now they must begin again! It was
hard, and both felt there was no relief for them. The little they had
saved during the first few years had to be used for the summer sowing,
and for food until they could gather a harvest. Here, again, Benito
found there would not he more than sufficient for their wants, and that,
when the next sowing time came, they would be in a worse condition than
at present for continuing the struggle for existence. Altogether Benito
and Maria were on the edge of despair.

Shortly after the death of Benito's parents, his elder brother had made
one of a band of artisans, laborers and soldiers, in company with two
Franciscan priests, to the province of Nueva California. Diego, who was
of a roving disposition, had wandered off to the south, working at his
trade of carpentry as the mood seized him, or the state of his pocket