of the valley, who is to walk at the head of the procession to the
church.

The heart of the beautiful Ysabel is in commotion, somewhat like the
bells themselves, as she listens to them and to the clamor of the
children, who began to gather an hour ago before the cottage, and are
now shrilly calling, "Y-sa-bel." And she can hardly stand still while
her mother is busily putting the last touches to the wonderful array in
which she is to appear. Never before has any girl of the village had
clothes so beautiful, entirely of white, yes, even to the shoes and
their rosettes and laces, all of white, so dear to the Mexican heart.
Moreover, there was the thought of Ramon; Ramon, who she thought loved
her: to-day would surely prove it, when he saw her so dressed, like--
yes, indeed--like a grand senorita. Ramon had been working in Los
Angeles, and there there were so many--she sighed to think how many--
girls for him to choose from. But to-day he was to be here: old Marta,
her mother, had found out, and told her: and to-day would surely tell.
There were others, of course: Ramon's friend, Felipe, for instance: he
was clever, and sang well, and she knew he liked her. But it was Ramon's
face that would come between her and the little square of looking-glass;
and it was Ramon, too, who came into her mind--the saints forgive her!
--even when she turned for a moment to her little crucifix, to say a
prayer for good fortune, special good fortune, that day.

At last all was ready, even to the final brushing that her mother must
give to the glossy hair which, parted by the dark, beautiful face, fell
in a rippling shower almost to her knee. It is no wonder that Marta
says, as she hovers, brush in hand, about her, "Thou art like the great
picture of the blessed Santa Barbara, child, that I used to see in the
Mission where I lived when I was as young as you"; and, to herself,