po. But both my
mother and--and--a dear friend are ill, and wish to see me."

"Thou must go to-night. How canst thou eat and be gay when thy mother
and--and--a dear friend are ill?"

"Ay, Eulogia! wouldst thou scoff over my grave? I go, but it is for thee
to say if I return."

"Do not tell me that thou adorest me here at the table. I shall blush,
and all will be about my smarting ears like the bees down in the padre's
hive."

"I shall not tell thee that before all the world, Eulogia. All I ask
is this little favour: I shall send thee a letter the night I leave.
Promise me that thou wilt answer it--to Monterey."

"No, sir! Long ago, when I was twelve, I made a vow I would never write
to a man. I never break that vow."

"Thou wilt break it for me, Eulogia."

"And why for you, senor? Half the trouble in the world has been made on
paper."

"Oh, thou wise one! What trouble can a piece of paper make when it lies
on a man's heart?"

"It can crackle when another head lies on it."

"No head will ever lie here but--"

"Mine?"

"Eulogia!"

"To thee, Senorita Dona Eulogia," cried a deep voice. "May the jewels in
thine eyes shine by the stars when thou art above them. May the tears
never dim them while they shine for us below," and a caballero pushed
back his chair, leaned forward, and touched her glass with his, then
went down on one knee and drank the red wine.

Eulogia threw him a little absent smile, sipped her wine, and went on
talking to Ignestria in her soft monotonous voice.

"My friend--Graciosa La Cruz--went a few weeks ago to Monterey for a
visit. You will tell her I think of her, no?"

"I will dance with her often because she is your friend--until I return
to San Luis Obispo."

"Will that be soon, senor?"

"I told thee that would be as soon as thou wished. Thou wilt answer my
letter--promise me, Eulogia."

"I will not, senor. I intend to be wiser than other women. At the very
least, my follies shall not burn paper. If you want an answer, you will
return."

"I will _not_ return without that answer. I never can see thee alone,
and if I could, thy coquetry would not give me a plain answer. I must
see it on paper before I will believe."

"Thou canst wait for the day of resurrection for thy knowledge, then!"

V

Once more Aunt Anastacia rolled her large figure through Eulogia's
doorway and handed her a letter.

"From Don Pablo Ignestria, my baby," she said. "Oh, what a man! what a
caballer