e terminal of the long trail itself.

I was only a boy, with the heart of a boy and the eyes of a boy. I could
only feel; I could not understand the spell of that hour. But to me
everything was alluring, wrapt as it was in the mystery of a
civilization old here when Plymouth Rock felt the first Pilgrim's foot,
or Pawnee Rock stared at the first bold plainsman of the pale face and
the conquering soul.

I was riding beside Beverly's wagon as we neared the quaint,
centuries-old, adobe church of San Miguel, rising tall and silent above
the low huts about it, its rough walls suggesting a fortress of
strength, while its triple towers might be an outlook for a guardsman.

"Look at that church. Bev, I wonder how old it is," I exclaimed.

"I should say about a thousand years and a day," Beverly declared. "See
that flopsy steeple thing! It looks like building-blocks stacked up
there."

"Maybe this is the sanctuary that priest was talking about," I
suggested. "He said the walls were old as hate and strong as love, with
a crooked street beside it somewhere."

"Oh, you sponge! Soaking up everything you see and hear. I wonder you
sleep nights for fear the wind will tell the pine trees something you'll
miss," Beverly declared. "I can tell a horse's age by its teeth, but
churches don't have teeth. Go and ask Mat about it. She knows when the
De Sotos and Corteses and all the other Spanish grandaddees came to
Mexico."

I had just turned back alongside of Mat's wagon--she was always our book
of ready reference--when a little girl suddenly dashed out of a walled
lane opening into the street behind us. She stopped in the middle of the
road, almost under my pony's feet, then with a shout of laughter she
dashed into the deep doorway of the church and stood there, peering out
at me with eyes brimful of mischief.

I brought my pony back on its haunches suddenly. I had seen this girl
before. The big dark eyes, the straight little nose, the curve of the
pink cheek, the china-smooth chin and neck, and, crowning all, the cloud
of golden hair shading her forehead and falling in tangled curls behind.

I did not notice all these features now. It was only the eyes, dark
eyes, somewhere this side of misty mountain peaks, and maybe the halo of
hair that had been in my vision on that day when Beverly and Mat Nivers
and I sat on the parade-ground facing a sudden turn in our life trail.

I stared at the eyes now, only half conscious that the girl