have read all the novels of the Senor Dumas, and I well know
all those men he makes. And they never speak the truth to women; always
they are selfish, and think only of their own pleasure. If the women
suffer, they do not care; they do not love the women--only themselves.
So I am not going to be fooled by the men. I shall enjoy life, but I
shall think of _myself_, not of the men."

Her mother gazed at her in speechless amazement. She never had read a
book in her life, and had not thought of locking from her daughter
the few volumes her dead husband had collected. Then she gasped with
consternation.

"Por Dios, senorita, a fine woman thou wilt make of thyself with such
ideas! a nice wife and mother--when the time comes. What does Padro
Flores say to that, I should like to know? It is very strange that he
has let you read those books."

"I have never told him," said Eulogia, indifferently.

"What!" screamed her mother. "You never told at confession?"

"No, I never did. It was none of his business what I read. Reading is no
sin. I confessed all--"

"Mother of God!" cried Dona Pomposa, and she rushed at Eulogia with
uplifted hand; but her nimble daughter dived under her arm with a
provoking laugh, and ran out of the room.

That night Eulogia pushed aside the white curtain of her window and
looked out. The beautiful bare hills encircling San Luis Obispo were
black in the silvered night, but the moon made the town light as day.
The owls were hooting on the roof of the mission; Eulogia could see them
flap their wings. A few Indians were still moving among the dark huts
outside the walls, and within, the padre walked among his olive trees.
Beyond the walls the town was still awake. Once a horseman dashed
down the street, and Eulogia wondered if murder had been done in the
mountains; the bandits were thick in their fastnesses. She did wish
she could see one. Then she glanced eagerly down the road beneath
her window. In spite of the wisdom she had accepted from the French
romanticist, her fancy was just a little touched by Juan Tornel. His
black flashing eyes could look so tender, and he rode so beautifully.
She twitched the curtain into place and ran across the room, her feet
pattering on the bare floor, jumped into her little iron bed, and drew
the dainty sheet to her throat. A ladder had fallen heavily against the
side of the house.

She heard an agile form ascend and seat itself on the deep window-sill.
Then the gu