e. Have you done so?"

"I've done the same as yourself."

"And has your heart gone with the gift? Tell the truth, _sobrina_."

"Ask your own, _tia_; and take its answer for mine."

"Enough, then; we understand each other, and shall keep the secret to
ourselves. Now let's talk of other things; go back to what we began
with--about leaving California. You're glad we're going?"

"Indeed, yes. And I wonder you're not the same. Dear old Spain, the
finest country on earth! And Cadiz the finest city."

"Ah! about that we two differ. Give me California for a country, and
San Francisco for a home; though it's not much of a city yet. It will,
ere long; and I should like to stay in it. But that's not to be, and
there's an end of the matter. Father has determined on leaving.
Indeed, he has already sold out; so that this house and the lands around
it are no longer ours. As the lawyers have the deed of transfer, and
the purchase money has been paid, we're only here on sufferance, and
must soon yield possession. Then, we're to take ship for Panama, go
across the Isthmus and over the Atlantic Ocean; once more to renew the
Old-world life, with all its stupid ceremonies. How I shall miss the
free wild ways of California--its rural sports--with their quaint
originality and picturesqueness! I'm sure I shall die of _ennui_, soon
after reaching Spain. Your Cadiz will kill me."

"But, Carmen; surely you can't be happy here--now that everything is so
changed? Why, we can scarce walk out in safety, or take a promenade
through the streets of the town, crowded with those rude fellows in
red-shirts, who've come to dig for gold--Anglo-Saxons, as they call
themselves."

"What! You speaking against Anglo-Saxons! And with that tress
treasured in your bosom--so close to your heart!"

"Oh! _he_ is different. He's not Saxon, but Welsh--and that's Celtic,
the same as you Biscayans. Besides, he isn't to be ranked with that
rabble, even though he were of the same race. The Senor Cadwallader is
a born hidalgo."

"Admitting him to be, I think you do wrong to these red-shirted gentry,
in calling them a rabble. Rough as they may appear, they have gentle
hearts under their coarse homespun coats. Many of them are true
bred-and-born gentlemen; and, what's better, behave as such. I've never
received insult from them--not even disrespect--though I've been among
them scores of times. Father wrongs them too: for it is partly their