Whoever had money to bet and those who had not were in Los Angeles that
day, many coming from San Francisco and San Diego. Twenty-five thousand
dollars, 500 horses, 500 mares, 500 heifers, 500 calves and 500 sheep
were among the stakes put up. The wife of Jose Sepulveda was driven to
the scene of the race with a fortune in gold slugs carried in a large
handkerchief which she opened to distribute $50 gold pieces to her
attendants and servants to wager. The 'Black Swan' won easily."

John was carried away by the stories told them by Don Ygnacio. He closed
his eyes as the old man spoke and into his mind came the pictures of the
Los Angeles of other days, the romance and adventure of the drowsy
little town that has become the greatest city of the West.

A full moon touched the house, the lawn, the trees, with silver.
Consuello, too, he saw, was dreaming of the days of long ago. As her
father completed the story of the horse race he paused and they sat
silent, the spell of reminiscence upon the elder couple and of
imagination upon Consuello and John.

"It is growing late, Mi Primavera," her father said. "If you are to
return to the city tonight you must leave soon."

Consuello rose and went into the house with her mother. Don Ygnacio and
John stood waiting. Finally, breaking a silence of several minutes, the
old man spoke.

"This is the home of my fathers," he said. "All that is left. They
counted their land in hundreds of acres. Now only a few acres remain,
just as much as you can see. What little is left will go when I go and
the Carrillo home will be no more."

John felt the mood of the elderly aristocrat of other days. He stood
silent.

"Where you stand Pio Pico once took me, as a child, in his arms. Here we
danced and sang and loved and lived and here also will I die."

Consuello and her mother returned and they walked out to the waiting
automobile.

"I have never had such a delightful day," John said to her father and
mother as they took their seats in the machine. "I thank you--from the
bottom of my heart."

"Come often, my boy, the home of the Carrillos is always open to a
friend of Mi Primavera," said Don Ygnacio.

They rode in silence for many miles, the automobile humming over the
smooth, deserted boulevards almost as bright as day in the moonlight.

Then Consuello spoke.

"I always hate to leave them there--they seem so lonely," she said.

"You must leave them?" John asked in surprise.

"Yes,"