became but a speck on the sunset sky.

"The two years passed and still there was no sign of the returning
vessel. Luis Argueello had been married to the lovely Rafaela and a
little son had come to bless their household, and yet Concepcion looked
out over the ocean watching for the white sail of a foreign ship. The
sweet grey eyes of Luis' young wife were closed in death and Concha's
heart and hands went out in sympathetic love and deeds to the stricken
family, all the while trying to still in her own breast the fear that a
like fate had overtaken her loved one. The verdant hills were again
streaked with golden poppies and once more turned to tawny brown and
still no ship nor word came from over the sea.

"It was eight or ten years before even a rumor of the fate of her lover
reached Concepcion, and not until she met the Englishman, Sir George
Simpson, twenty-five years after Rezanov sailed out of San Francisco
bay, did she learn the details of his death. It was almost winter when,
leaving Alaska, he crossed the ocean and began his perilous trip through
Siberia. Frequently drenched to the skin and undergoing terrible
privations, he traveled for thousands of miles on horseback, now lying
at some wayside inn burning with fever and again pushing on until he
dropped prostrate at the next village. A fall from his horse added to
his already serious condition, which resulted in his death in the little
village of Krasnoiark, and he lies now buried beneath the snows of
Siberia.

"Although many sought her hand in marriage, Concepcion remained faithful
to her Russian lover. There being no convent for women in the country at
that time, she donned the grey habit of the 'Third Order of St. Francis
in the world,' devoting her life to the care of the sick and the
teaching of the poor. Later when a Dominican convent was established," I
added, rising, "she became not only its first nun, but also its Mother
Superior."

"A romance that may well take a place with such world-famed love stories
as those of Abelard and Heloise; and Alexandre and Thaeis. I should like
to make a pilgrimage to her grave," he added as we left the old adobe
house.

"You can," I replied. "It's tucked away in a corner of the Benicia
Cemetery, marked by a marble slab carved with her name and a simple
cross."

We entered a grove of eucalyptus trees, which now and again divided,
giving marvelous views of the bay and the Marin shore.

But my companion's mind stil