had long ago taken
to himself a wife of Castilian blood; to-morrow their eldest remaining
daughter was to be married to a young Englishman, whose father had been
a merchant in California when San Francisco was Yerba Buena. Not a room
was vacant in the house. Young people had come from Monterey and San
Francisco, Santa Barbara and Los Angeles. Beds had been put up in the
library and billiard-room, in the store-rooms and attics. The corral was
full of strange horses, and the huts in the willows had their humbler
guests.

Francisca sat in her room surrounded by a dozen chattering girls. The
floor beneath the feet of the Californian heiress was bare, and the
heavy furniture was of uncarved mahogany. But a satin quilt covered the
bed, lavish Spanish needlework draped chest and tables, and through
the open window came the June sunshine and the sound of the splashing
fountain.

Francisca was putting the last stitches in her wedding-gown, and the
girls were helping, advising, and commenting.

"Art thou not frightened, Panchita," demanded one of the girls, "to go
away and live with a strange man? Just think, thou hast seen him but ten
times."

"What of that?" asked Francisca, serenely, holding the rich corded silk
at arm's length, and half closing her eyes as she readjusted the deep
flounce of Spanish lace. "Remember, we shall ride and dance and play
games together for a week with all of you, dear friends, before I go
away with him. I shall know him quite well by that time. And did not my
father know him when he was a little boy? Surely, he cannot be a cruel
man, or my father would not have chosen him for my husband."

"I like the Americans and the Germans and the Russians," said the girl
who had spoken, "particularly the Americans. But these English are so
stern, so harsh sometimes."

"What of that?" asked Francisca again. "Am I not used to my father?"

She was a singular-looking girl, this compound of Scotch and Spanish.
Her face was cast in her father's hard mould, and her frame was large
and sturdy, but she had the black luxuriant hair of Spain, and much
grace of gesture and expression.

"I would not marry an Englishman," said a soft voice.

Francisca raised her eyebrows and glanced coldly at the speaker, a girl
of perfect loveliness, who sat behind a table, her chin resting on her
clasped hands.

"Thou wouldst marry whom our father told thee to marry, Elena," said her
sister, severely. "What hast thou to say ab