imes, he was, sure, and he dreaded to put the question again. Ten
minutes later he was racing over the sand-dunes to the Presidio, his
face radiant and his hand tightly clasping an official document. It had
come at last--the order from the king! Where was Rafaela? He hurried to
her house and, folding her close in his arms, be whispered that their
long waiting was at an end; that she was his as long as life should
last.

"But, oh, such a little span of happiness was theirs! Only two brief
years, and then the cold hand of death was laid upon the sweet Rafaela."

For a moment my companion did not move. A bird sang in the tree above us
and the wind sent a shower of pink petals over the green mound. Then,
stooping, he picked a white Castilian rose from a tangle of shrubbery
and laid it at the base of the granite shaft. "In memory of the lovely
Rafaela," he said softly; I unpinned a bunch of fragrant violets from my
jacket and placed, them beside his offering, then we silently followed
the shaded path to the white picket gate and were once more on the noisy
thoroughfare.

"A fitting resting place for the first Mexican governor of California,"
he said, glancing back at the heavy facade of the church, "so simple and
dignified. Yet if Luis Argueello had lived in New England, we should have
considered his house of equal importance with his grave and have placed
a bronze tablet on the front, but you Westerners have, so little regard
for old--"

"If you would like to see the home of Luis Argueello, I will show it to
you. It is at the Presidio."

"A hopeless mass of neglected ruins, I suppose. But still I should like
to see the old walls, if you can find them."

"Shall we take the Camino Real on foot, just as the old padres used to?"

"Not if I have my way. I'll acknowledge that the Spanish friars have
left you Californians one legacy that no Easterner can vie with, that is
your love of tramping over these hills. I've seen streets in San
Francisco so steep that teams seldom attempt them, as is evident from
the grass between the cobblestones, and yet they are lined with
dwellings."

"Houses that are never vacant," I assured him. "We like to get off the
level, and value our residence real estate by the view it affords."

Noticing that the sun was now high, my companion drew out his watch.
"Luncheon time," he announced. "Shall it be the Palace or St. Francis
hotel?"

"Let's keep in the spirit of the times and go to a Spanis