, and without an instant's hesitation took her by the arm and led
her over to the sweet lime tree.

"Kay," he began, "on such a moonlit night as this, on this same spot,
my father asked my mother to marry him. Kay, dear, I love you. I
always shall, I have never been in love before and I shall never be in
love again. There's just enough Celt in me to make me a one-girl man,
and since that day on the train when you cut my roast beef because my
hand was crippled, you've been the one girl in the world for me. Until
to-day, however, I did not have the right to tell you this and to ask
you, as I now do, if you love me enough to marry me; if you think you
could manage to live with me here most of the time--after I've restored
the old place somewhat. Will you marry me, Kay--ah, you will, you
will!"

She was in his arms, her flower face upturned to his for his first kiss.

They were married in the quaint, old-world chapel of the now restored
Mission de la Madre Dolorosa by Father Dominic, and in accordance with
ancient custom, revived for the last time, the master of Palomar gave
his long-delayed _fiesta_ and barbecue, and the rich and the poor,
honest men and wastrels, the _gente_ and the _peons_ of San Marcos
County came to dance at his wedding.

Their wedding night Don Mike and his bride spent, unattended save for
Pablo and Carolina, in the home of his ancestors. It was still
daylight when they found themselves speeding the last departing wedding
guest; hand in hand they seated themselves on the old bench under the
catalpa tree and gazed down into the valley. There fell between them
the old sweet silence that comes when hearts are too filled with
happiness to find expression in words. From the Mission de la Madre
Dolorosa there floated up to them the mellow music of the Angelus; the
hills far to the west were still alight on their crests, although the
shadows were long in the valley, and Don Mike, gazing down on his
kingdom regained, felt his heart filled to overflowing.

His wife interrupted his meditations. He was to learn later that this
is a habit of all wives.

"Miguel, dear, what are you thinking about?"

"I cannot take time to tell you now, Kay, because my thoughts, if
transmuted into print, would fill a book. Mostly, however, I have been
thinking how happy and fortunate I am, and how much I love you and
that--yonder. And when I look at it I am reminded that but for you it
would not be mine. Mine?