THESE THOUGHTS RUSHED THROUGH HIS MIND AND SMOTE 
 
 HIM IJKE A LARIAT. " Page /J. 
 
JUAN PICO 
 
 BY 
 
 WILL R. HALPIN 
 
 AUTHOR OF Two MEN IN THE WEST," ETC. 
 
 NEW YORK 
 ROBERT LEWIS WEED COMPANY 
 
 PUBLISHERS 
 
Copyrighted, 1899, by 
 
 ROBERT LEWIS WEED COMPANY 
 
 (This book is also copyrighted in England.) 
 
Co mi? /ifcctbcr 
 
 Whose gentle voice is forever hushed in the sleep 
 called death, this book is dedicated in loving remem 
 brance. 
 
 WILL R. HALPIN. 
 
ONE 
 
 " Weak and irresolute is man, 
 
 The purpose of to-day, 
 Woven with pains into his plan, 
 
 To-morrow rends away." 
 
 WILLIAM COWPER. 
 
 IT is late in the afternoon of a short Decem 
 ber day. The rapidly leveling sun casts a ruby 
 glow over the summits of the San Bernardino 
 mountains. Against a cloudless sky the rug 
 ged peaks look like giant cameos carved by 
 the hand of Time, and thrust upward into the 
 pure sapphire heaven, deepen its tone of azure. 
 
 Over the dusty road that stretches between 
 San Gabriel and Los Angeles, twilight is soon 
 to fall. Thrown up by the wayside, the Mecca 
 for all travelers and ranchmen from San Diego 
 to San Francisco, is a low adobe saloon. Here, 
 for fifty years gambling has openly been car- 
 
6 JUAN PICO 
 
 ried on, and within its walls many crimes have 
 been committed. 
 
 The present owner, Andre d'Alliscon, is a 
 Mexican of the most degraded type. Built 
 like a giant, his limbs are powerful and strong, 
 and his head is large and covered with a thick 
 mat of tangled hair. His eyes are black and 
 glassy ; and across his left cheek is a jagged Z 
 shaped scar always pulsating as if with anger. 
 "Walking away from a group of hangers-on 
 about the place, Andre has thrown himself 
 on a mat near the door and is gossiping 
 with a couple of ranchmen leaning against the 
 bar. 
 
 Juan Pico sitting on the west side of the 
 house could now and then catch parts of the 
 half -Spanish, half -English conversation, al 
 though he understood the latter with some 
 difficulty. Like his father, Juan was more 
 Spanish than Mexican, and as the San Gabriel 
 people said, " more Mexican than fool." 
 
 Disturbed by the voices of the men collected 
 in and about the saloon, Juan plunges his 
 hands deeper into his pockets and pulls his 
 sombrero well down over his closed eyes, at 
 
JUAN PICO 7 
 
 the same time, moving his head uneasily 
 against the rough adobe wall. Shadows of 
 the bright red poincetti leaves fall in curiously 
 formed shapes on his well-worn corduroy 
 clothes. Only the lower part of his face is 
 visible he has a firm and heavy jaw, a large 
 and sinewy mouth, the thick sensual lips of 
 which seem still drenched with wine. His 
 large, muscular hands, brown and hairy, fall 
 languidly on either side of his massive legs. 
 The ends of his fingers and thumbs are discol 
 ored by the constant use of cigarettes, and 
 when he holds his hands up against the light, 
 the knotted joints of the fingers show chinks 
 between them. 
 
 In monotonous rise and fall the rough voices 
 continue to grate on Juan's ear and he 
 slightly shifts his position, stretches himself 
 and rolls the half-smoked cigarette between 
 his lips. Pushing his hat to the back of his 
 head he displays his full face, the first sight of 
 which proclaims him to be a Mexican with an 
 ancestral trace of Indian. His eyes, large, 
 limpid and black, are capable of any variation 
 of expression, and his forehead would have 
 
8 JUAN PICO 
 
 been the pride of a man of culture and refine 
 ment. His nose, betraying his active adven 
 turous temperament, is large and in harmony 
 with the general contour of his face. 
 
 Nervously fingering his small, black mus 
 tache, he again closes his eyes, drops his hands 
 beside him and remains motionless. But he is 
 not asleep, nor is he in the drunken stupor so 
 often indulged in by Mexicans and Indians on 
 pleasant afternoons. Presently, as if calculat 
 ing, his lips move, he sits upright, throws his 
 cigarette into a bank of wild nasturtiums and 
 ejaculates : 
 
 " Ten thousand sheep lost on the turn of a 
 card ! " 
 
 With a preparatory shake of the shoulders 
 he was rising to his feet when he heard his 
 name mentioned, and sinking back on the 
 bench he listened to the conversation which 
 had gradually become more and more ani 
 mated. 
 
 "My Senora comes running into the room 
 and says, Tor the love of the Holy Yirgin, 
 Andre, go in and stop him, he's stark raven' 
 mad, and if the Indian in him gets up, there'll 
 
JUAN PICO 9 
 
 be murder here. The bar'll be closed and us 
 turned out to walk all the way to Los Angeles.' 
 I just says to her, * Oh, you go along about 
 your business, men is men, gamblen' is as fair 
 and square a way of getten' a liven' as any- 
 then' else.' " 
 
 The two men at the bar bought a bottle of 
 Muscat wine and sat down at a table near 
 Andre whose ideas seemed to interest them. 
 Juan half rose. 
 
 " Well, my Seiiora puts up her apron over 
 her head and says she, ' I'm no witness to it, if 
 young Pico gets killed here to-night, I wash my 
 hands of it ; but for God's sake give him no 
 more rum.' " 
 
 " Damn the women ! " broke in one of the 
 men. "They don't know nothing, nohow. 
 Juan Pico is a man and knows his business. 
 If he'd won a flock of sheep, would he ha' 
 given 'em back ? " 
 
 "Not him," said Andre, "Indians ain't 
 built that way! Besides he's as crooked as 
 a manzinita branch ; so was old Pico before 
 him." 
 
 " As for his mother," said one of the stran- 
 
10 JUAN PICO 
 
 gers, "a viler French Creole never begged 
 from door to door through the San Fernando 
 valley." 
 
 " A lady, indeed," contemptuously exclaimed 
 Andre, " that is what old Pico said, but none 
 of the old Mission records show any sign of a 
 marriage between 'em, and yet this brazen 
 young Juan holds hisself head and shoulders 
 over any man in the San Gabriel valley. I 
 wish you'd knifed him." 
 
 Juan Pico had heard enough ; springing to 
 his feet he started toward the bar-room. Sud 
 denly he stopped in the attitude of a wrestler, 
 his hands savagely clenched : 
 
 " It's a lie, a lie but I must prove it to the 
 whole valley. After that, let them knife me 
 if they can." 
 
 And he strode out under the grapevines 
 and lemon trees toward the main road that led 
 up through the valley to the San Gabriel Mis 
 sion. Far to the northeast, range after range 
 of glorious mountains wandered away in the 
 distance, and the long green valley stretched 
 in pensive quietness toward the western sea. 
 In the far south San Diego mountain lifted 
 
JUAN PICO 11 
 
 its hoary head revealing and yet hiding the 
 secrets of centuries. 
 
 Juan had turned to the southwest, and the 
 slightly salty breeze from the ocean kissed his 
 heated brow. He longed to be away from 
 these scenes to be away on the Catalina 
 Islands, those gems on the breast of the bil 
 lows. Dashing through his brain, the blood 
 made his temples throb, and the words he had 
 listened to, so rang in his ears, that he was ob 
 livious to all customary sights and sounds. 
 
 " No marriage record ? No sacred tie ? No 
 paper to prove it ? " 
 
 These questions beat in his brain like surf 
 upon the shore. 
 
 " It's a lie ! And every one shall know it." 
 He tried to collect his thoughts. 
 
 " Had not good Father Baptiste told him of 
 how he had married his father and mother 
 down in the Los Angeles Mission?" He 
 stopped. "Alas ! It was nine long years since 
 Father Baptiste had died." A frown puckered 
 his brows, he slackened his pace, then looked 
 up defiantly : 
 
 "What is the walk to Los Angeles? The 
 
12 JUAN PICO 
 
 priest there will look through the records for 
 me, or I can do it myself." 
 
 Juan Pico started on smiling with firmly 
 closed lips : he had the virtues of his heritage, 
 the patience of the Indian and the will of the 
 Mexican ; all fire and iron but let the blow of 
 the hammer fall and sparks fly in all direc 
 tions. 
 
 Along the road could be seen groups of 
 men sitting or leaning against the houses and 
 fences. Juan was dimly conscious that they 
 were talking of his loss, for their gestures in 
 dicated that the subject under discussion was 
 an uncommon one, even in a locality where 
 gambling was the chief occupation. 
 
 Slowly the sun was sinking ; only the moun 
 tain peaks reflected its wasting glory. Just a 
 faint salmon tint touched the summit of old 
 Baldy. Silently twilight was settling in the 
 valley and over the little town, if town it 
 could be called, for it was but a long chain of 
 old adobe houses scattered along the roadside, 
 like beads upon a rosary, with Andre's saloon 
 at one end and the old San Gabriel Mission at 
 the other. Many a life's tragedy had been en- 
 
JUAN PICO 13 
 
 acted between these points, and Time in his 
 flight had left a trail of blood along the road. 
 On this very road, in the early days of the 
 Mission the beautiful Seiiorita Domingo was 
 slain by her jealous Spanish lover. It was said 
 that years after he was killed by a flash of 
 lightning over in Kubio Canon. In a preoccu 
 pied way, Juan thought of the Senorita lying 
 dead with a stiletto in her back, and a slight 
 shudder ran through his frame. 
 
 "Not yet," he muttered. "Holy Virgin, 
 not yet. The record must be found. I am 
 coming to pray to you." As if speaking to 
 himself, he continued : " I will confess all to 
 the good old father, and he will help me to 
 make over the sheep to Gonzalez. Then I will 
 go to Los Angeles, but first I must see Anita." 
 
 With this name on his lips, he tried the 
 heavy oak door of the Mission. It was locked. 
 Then he walked to the side where the old 
 stone steps led up to the choir-loft. He 
 paused a moment under the soft waving 
 pepper trees whose branches hung over the 
 stairway ; then hastening to the top he tried 
 the latch, but it, too, was fast. Eetracing his 
 
14 JUAN PICO 
 
 steps, he went to the priest's house at the 
 other end of the building. Climbing over the 
 long wide veranda were roses and jasmin, for 
 the good old father was fond of flowers, and 
 every day the year round had a fresh bunch 
 picked and placed at the Virgin's feet. 
 
 Juan hoped that the father would open the 
 door. He tapped gently, oh, so gently, it 
 could scarcely have been heard across the 
 room inside. There was no response. Again 
 he knocked. This time somewhat louder. 
 Then he heard the heavy tread of the house 
 keeper and his heart sank. Opening the door 
 she saw Juan and said harshly : 
 
 " Well, and what's up now ? " 
 
 "Is the father in?" 
 
 " I should say he was in ; he's at his devo 
 tions, where you and every gambler in the 
 valley should be confessing your sins and do 
 ing penance." 
 
 Slamming the door in his face she left Juan 
 standing on the outside. He looked at the 
 closed door as if in a dream. " Could it be 
 possible that he had been turned away ? he, 
 Juan Pico ? Since he was old enough to pray, 
 
JUAN PICO 15 
 
 had he not dined here often with the fathers ? 
 Was it not here that old Father Petra Palma 
 had taught him to read and write? taught 
 him the uses of colors and how to know the 
 wild flowers in the fields ? Had he not illus 
 trated the Holy Creed on sheepskin and was 
 it not now hanging in the father's room be 
 neath the statue of the Virgin? Was he 
 turned away ? " 
 
 These thoughts rushed through his mind 
 and smote him like a lariat. 
 
 " What if Father Ambrose had heard of his 
 last loss at cards ? Would he ever again have 
 faith in his promises? Would he listen to 
 him at all?" He stood quite still and then 
 began to pray. As he prayed the shadow of 
 Father Ambrose fell upon the casement of his 
 room and Juan walked firmly across the ve 
 randa and knocked at the door. 
 
 It was opened almost immediately and the 
 reverend old man stood in the doorway. The 
 lamp on the table behind him cast a golden 
 glow about his head. To Juan it looked like 
 a halo. 
 
 " Come in, my boy," said the father, gently 
 
16 JUAN PICO 
 
 taking him by both hands. Then as the light 
 fell upon Juan's face, he exclaimed : " I'm not 
 mistaken, it's really Juan." 
 
 " Yes, father, Juan, the last of the Picos, 
 ruined, and a beggar ! " 
 
 " Hush, hush, my son, not so fast, lest the 
 path be hard to retrace. Come in, sit down ; 
 tell me what it is all about, Juan, none that 
 live are lost." 
 
 " But, father, I am a beggar ! " 
 
 "Not so, my son; have you not your 
 health ? Eemember, none but the ill are beg 
 gars, for they, indeed, beg for health." 
 
 " Father, I am a ruined man ! " 
 
 "Impossible, son, only the aged are ruined, 
 for they no longer can withstand the blasts of 
 the world." 
 
 Juan, soothed by the voice and words of the 
 old priest, was persuaded to sit down and con 
 tinued less abruptly : 
 
 " Eeverend father, I have broken my prom 
 ise to you. To-day I was drinking in Andre's 
 saloon, and I broke my promise not to play 
 cards. At first, I told Gonzalez I would play 
 just one game with him. But when I won, 
 
JUAN PICO 17 
 
 father, the devil got into me, I could not stop, 
 I had to go on. I lost the next game, then I 
 won again. I'm sorry I broke my promise, 
 but I forgot everything except the game. And 
 the men were standing all around us and 
 shouting. At last I staked my sheep upon a 
 card. I turned it, I had lost ! The crowd 
 yelled, ' Gonzalez has won ! Gonzalez is a good 
 fellow ! ' They were all laughing and swear 
 ing and yelling." 
 
 Father Ambrose looked at Juan for a mo 
 ment, then said : 
 
 " When did this happen ? " 
 
 "This morning." 
 
 " Why did you not come to me at once ? " 
 
 " I couldn't get away, I couldn't leave the 
 saloon until now, father ; I was trying to think 
 how I could win back my sheep. And, father, 
 I heard the men talking after they thought I 
 had gone away. They called me a fool, that 
 I knew " 
 
 "Well," said Father Ambrose, gently, "go 
 on, you have more you wish to tell me, have 
 you not, Juan ? " 
 
 " Yes," Juan cried passionately, " the dogs 
 
18 JUAN PICO 
 
 down, there say that my father and mother 
 were low people, that they were never mar 
 ried. It's a lie, isn't it, father ? " 
 
 " Juan, do not be troubled ; those who are 
 evil themselves, are only too glad to speak 
 evil of others." 
 
 " But you believe it's a lie, don't you ? " 
 
 " Yes, Juan, I knew your sainted father and 
 mother well." 
 
 " Father Baptiste told me that he married my 
 father and mother at the Los Angeles Mission." 
 
 " The records there will prove it. So do 
 not be worried by what you have heard." 
 
 " But they shall know it's a lie, and I am 
 going to Los Angeles for proof ! " 
 
 " I would, my son ; that will set your mind 
 at rest. The priests there will help you to 
 trace the record, and all will be well." 
 
 " In the morning I must go to the notary 
 and have him draw up the paper giving the 
 sheep to Gonzalez." 
 
 " Yes, Juan, in the morning." 
 
 "When that is done, I must go over to 
 Otero ranch, and from there, on to Los An 
 geles. But, father" 
 
JUAN PICO 19 
 
 " What is it, Juan ? " 
 
 " There is the money due me for the wool. 
 I will leave word for it to be paid to you. 
 Will you send it to Father Jerome, at Los 
 Angeles ? " 
 
 " Yes, I will arrange that for you. And do 
 not come back here for a time yourself. 
 Father Jerome will have a copy made from 
 the record ; send this to me. I will attend to 
 the affair for you. I will show the paper to 
 Andre and to others, and will see that the re 
 port is contradicted." 
 
 Juan pressed the father's hand gratefully. 
 They were sitting side by side. 
 
 "You well know, Juan, what cause the 
 fathers of the missions have for loving your 
 family. For generations the Pico gold has 
 helped toward building the long chain of Mis 
 sions that extend all the way from San Diego 
 to San Francisco. Much of this gold was 
 brought with difficulty from Mexican mines. 
 In this very Mission one of your rich ancestors 
 nursed a priest through an illness of smallpox 
 when no one could be hired to do it. To this 
 day masses are said for the repose of his soul. 
 
20 JUAN PICO 
 
 Should we not love the son of that family ? 
 Surely, and we do. Never has a Pico lived 
 who has not given freely to the church, for 
 they have loved the Missions and the church. 
 
 " And in many ways they have shown their 
 love, by prayers and alms and gifts, a well 
 dug at their expense, a field, or a flock of 
 sheep given, a shrine, a bell no Pico has ever 
 taken an empty hand out of his pocket in any 
 of our missions." 
 
 Juan started to speak, the priest motioned 
 him to wait, "And at the Pico ranch no 
 hungry traveler has ever been turned away." 
 
 " Until now," broke in Juan, " for now there 
 is nothing but the bare grazing fields and the 
 house; for I have gambled away the wheat- 
 fields, the groves and now the sheep. I am 
 the first Pico who has nothing to give." 
 
 " You have your two hands, you have health 
 and youth. "With these you have no right to 
 say that you have nothing." 
 
 The mildly penetrating eyes of Father Am 
 brose looked Juan through and through ; after 
 a pause he asked : 
 
 " Juan, are you done with gambling ? " 
 
JUAN PICO 21 
 
 " Father, I will never gamble again." 
 
 "Also, promise me, that in any difficulty 
 you will come at once to Father Jerome, or to 
 me. No one cares more for you than we do, 
 for you are a son of the Missions." 
 
 " Father, I promise you. And I repent that 
 I have done wrong, that I have broken my 
 former promises." Tears ran down Juan's 
 face ; he sank on his knees : "I promise again 
 that I will never gamble, and if I am in need 
 of advice that I will come to you or to Father 
 Jerome. Forgive me, father; tell me what 
 penance you would have me do." 
 
 " My son, I forgive you. The Holy Church 
 forgives you. Show your repentance by good 
 deeds." 
 
 Juan sobbed aloud, the father stood, placed 
 his thin hands on the bowed head before him 
 and went on : 
 
 " Go to work at something as soon as possi 
 ble. Perhaps Los Angeles will be the place. 
 And now, my son, bless you and peace be 
 with you." 
 
 With the sign of the cross on his forehead 
 a prayerful look fell over Juan's face, such as 
 
22 JUAN PICO 
 
 it had not known since the days when he was 
 serving as an acolyte before the altar. 
 
 When Juan rose to depart, Father Ambrose 
 took the young man in his arms and kissed him. 
 
 "To-night, you shall stay here and sleep 
 where you have slept so often when you were 
 a boy." 
 
 A little later they crossed the court, and as 
 Father Ambrose bade the penitent man good 
 night, he said : 
 
 " Kest well, my son, you are in the care of 
 the good God." 
 
 And closing the door behind him, the good 
 priest left Juan in the quiet little room whose 
 four walls of late years had so seldom shel 
 tered him. 
 
 All night Juan tossed restlessly upon the 
 bed. Through the open window the large 
 silver moon shot its beautiful shaft of light, 
 and now and then, he heard the glorious songs 
 of the nightingales in the trees, and he lis 
 tened to the old clock in the next room as it 
 steadily chimed the hours away ; nor did he 
 fall asleep until the pale streaks of dawn 
 crossed the Eastern sky. 
 
TWO 
 
 " Give me thy hand, and hush awhile, 
 And turn those limpid eyes on mine 
 And let me read there, love, thy inmost soul." 
 
 THE BURIED LIFE. 
 
 the fierce midday sun Otero ranch 
 stood triumphantly beautiful. In full bloom, 
 the almond trees looked as if soft pink and 
 white clouds had flung themselves among the 
 branches. Bees hummed everywhere and the 
 air was heavy with the perfume of flowers. 
 Near at hand, picking the ripe fruit from the 
 overladen trees, orange gatherers were singing. 
 
 On the long veranda that stretched around 
 three sides of the court, several old women 
 were idly sitting in the shade. In pots and 
 jars on the wide window-sills, geraniums were 
 growing. And on the shady side of the house, 
 in their wicker cages, some linnets were sing 
 ing. Wandering over the house a trumpet 
 vine clung caressingly to the walls, and even 
 climbed up on the old red-tiled roof. 
 
 About the ranch everything was life and ac- 
 
 23 
 
24 JUAN PICO 
 
 tivity. Men hurried here, and women hurried 
 there. And over all, presided Senora Gintaris, 
 who gave her orders to Sebastian, the head 
 ranchman, and he in turn gave them to the 
 hands. 
 
 All of the hands about the place stood in 
 awe of Senora Gintaris, but many of them had 
 known her in her childhood, and some of them 
 had worked for her parents and grandparents. 
 They had an unquestioning respect for all that 
 the Senora said, and whether she was right or 
 wrong they obeyed her commands to the let 
 ter. In the evenings, when the hands were 
 gathered together, the men smoking cigarettes 
 and the women gossiping, above the hum of 
 the lively conversation, every now and then a 
 dispute would be settled, or a position defended 
 by the emphatic assertion, " The Senora said 
 thus and so," or " The Senora told him to do 
 this or that." 
 
 Senora Gintaris had always been the head 
 of her household and she managed it well. 
 There was a place for everything on Otero 
 ranch, and everything was in its place, or the 
 Senora knew it. At the death of her father, 
 
JUAN PICO 25 
 
 Don Antonio Otero, the ranch had fallen to 
 her, and here she had spent most of her life. 
 From its oatfield of eight thousand acres to 
 the spearmint patch beside the stream, there 
 was not an inch of its surface that was un 
 known to her. 
 
 As soon as the rains fell, men flocked to the 
 great Otero ranch, for the Senora always had 
 it plowed at once, and employed outside hands 
 whenever that seemed best to her. Indeed, 
 Senora Gintaris set the seasons for those she 
 employed not less punctually than did the 
 signs of the Zodiac. She knew by name every 
 man, woman and child at work in the fields, 
 and was known and looked up to, by them and 
 by every one throughout the entire valley. 
 
 After the death of her husband, the Senora 
 had adopted a little child which filled in part 
 the vacancy in her life. In loving the little 
 Anita, Senora Gintaris was selfishly happy. 
 For when she adopted Anita, her own happi 
 ness, not that of the child, was uppermost in 
 her mind, and she provided so that Anita should 
 live to fulfill that purpose. At first, Senora 
 Gintaris knew nothing of Anita's parents, ex- 
 
26 JUAN PICO 
 
 cept that the nuns in Santa Barbara told her 
 when she took the babe from them, that she 
 had been left on the doorstep of the convent. 
 Facts, however, were later learned, and it was 
 proven that the child's father was a cattle- 
 ranger from San Buenaventura, and her mother 
 a Spanish girl who sold laces along the high 
 way from Los Angeles to San Diego. These 
 facts, however, did not disturb the slumbers of 
 the Seiiora. Anita was pretty, loving and 
 obedient, Senora Gintaris asked no more. Be 
 sides, Anita's disposition entirely suited, and 
 Senora Gintaris had educated her herself, 
 teaching her French and Spanish, and also to 
 sing and play upon the guitar. 
 
 Anita's voice was naturally charming, a 
 sweet, clear soprano, resembling the song of a 
 lark rather more than that of a nightingale. 
 Seiiora Gintaris loved music, and Anita sang 
 to her every night. No matter what the cares 
 of the day had been, Anita would go to the 
 Senora and say : 
 
 " Madre mi, shall I sing to you ? " 
 And no matter what troubled the Senora, 
 she would always smile and answer : 
 
JUAN PICO 27 
 
 " Yes, my child." 
 
 Nothing ever seemed so to sway the emo 
 tions of Senora Gintaris as did the singing of 
 Anita. 
 
 Often when Anita sang, the hands would 
 gather around, and when she played a fandango 
 on the guitar, some of them would dance. Old 
 Sebastian claimed that there was a devil in 
 Anita's guitar, but Amelia, the cook, would 
 retort : 
 
 "Devil, or angel, her music touches the 
 heart." 
 
 Many an hour during the day, Anita sang 
 and played to herself in her room or out in the 
 almond grove, for her love of solitude equaled 
 that of the hermit thrush. And she was like 
 a thrush wandering about among the trees and 
 singing songs that gushed from the heart, 
 usually sad plaintive airs or parts of the mass. 
 Music was her chief recreation, and the Senora's 
 love and approval, her dearest wish. Just 
 thirteen she was a beautiful girl, giving prom 
 ise of a noble womanhood. Her mind had 
 been moulded by the Senora like plaster in an 
 artist's hands. No book was ever read by her 
 
28 JUAN PICO 
 
 that the Seiiora did not previously examine, 
 nor did her eyes look upon a picture that the 
 Seiiora had not seen; so tenderly was she 
 guarded that such things as envy, hatred and 
 malice were unknown to her. "When she con 
 fessed to the father, it was some secret desire 
 for the Senora's happiness that was lisped, or 
 some innocent, worldly wish to know more of 
 life and of what the future had in store for her. 
 Trusting to the Senora in everything, she never 
 asked questions, nor made plans for herself. 
 
 Although Anita saw few young people, un 
 known to her love had secretly entered her 
 heart, but all that she realized of his presence, 
 was that at times she was supremely happy 
 and trusted every one. 
 
 Lately she talked more than had been her 
 custom with the old women about the ranch, 
 who often said to her : 
 
 " Seiiorita, do not be too happy, some ill 
 may come of it." 
 
 The Senora also noticed Anita's gay light- 
 heartedness and sometimes asked : 
 
 "What has happened to my little song 
 bird?" 
 
JUAN Pico 29 
 
 Anita would laugh and embrace the Senora, 
 kiss her and reply : 
 
 "Madre mi, Anita loves you." 
 
 At this, under her smiles, sometimes the 
 Seiiora would sigh. The Senora often sighed, 
 for with her, life had been a tempestuous sea 
 of joys and sorrows, with her heart tossing 
 restlessly upon its billows. Scarcely had she 
 been married a year, when Senor Gintaris fell 
 dead in the field, struck by a blast from the 
 sun. Other sorrows she had known, but of 
 the loss of her husband Senora Gintaris never 
 spoke, it was buried in the innermost chambers 
 of her heart. A streak of grey in her hair 
 was the only visible mark of the blow that 
 had fallen upon her. 
 
 In a selfish way, the Senora's life was bound 
 up in Anita. Compassion and pity were the 
 cradles in which she first rocked the little 
 child ; by and by, as Anita grew and increased 
 in beauty, admiration came and the Seiiora 
 found herself idolizing the girl and yielding to 
 Anita's every wish so far as her own conven 
 ience was not disturbed. 
 
 One wish of Anita's it had never suited the 
 
30 JUAtt PICO 
 
 Senora to grant. Anita longed to visit Los 
 Angeles, to see the city and the sea, and the 
 desire deferred, became at last the dream of 
 her life. She often begged : 
 
 " Madre ini, take me with you this time." 
 
 But the Senora invariably set aside her 
 pleading with the answer : 
 
 " My child, there's plenty of time, plenty of 
 time ; some day you shall go with me, and I 
 will take you up to San Francisco, also, for I 
 have affairs there, too. And we will stay as 
 long as you please, and you shall see every 
 thing. Meanwhile, be not hurried, my little 
 bird, to fly from the nest." 
 
 Anita, caressingly put off, waited happily ; 
 for the love of the Senora softened refusal 
 and brightened promises. At first she was 
 patient, but as the hoped-for city continued 
 to recede before her, Anita began to fear 
 that she should never see it. Wherever she 
 went, whatever she did, always close in her 
 thoughts slumbered the wish to see new 
 scenes and new people, and by the time 
 she had reached the stature of womanhood, 
 the longing had engraved upon her heart 
 
JUAN PICO 31 
 
 the name of the city of the angels, Los An 
 geles. 
 
 In the spring, they could not go, for the 
 crops had to be planted ; in the summer, irri 
 gating ditches had to be repaired and ex 
 tended ; in the fall, crops had to be gathered 
 and fruits shipped ; and throughout the year the 
 Senora's friends made her many visits. Thus 
 the months went by, season followed season 
 in quick succession, and the quiet monotonous 
 life of the ranch continued. Anita attended to 
 her duties as regularly as she said her prayers. 
 She kept the vases filled with fresh flowers, 
 she performed little grateful services for the 
 sick, she fed the peacocks and each night she 
 watched the counting of the sheep. 
 
 Occasionally, in the evening, old Sebastian 
 would drive the Senora and Anita up the val 
 ley road or accompany them over into the 
 neighboring canon where the Seiiora kept her 
 bees. At such times the Senora and Sebastian 
 would discuss what was transpiring on the 
 ranch, the condition of the crops, the prospect 
 of the harvest and how the help were doing. 
 
 But of late, things were changing ; each day 
 
32 JUAN PICO 
 
 the Senora contrived to ask less of the old 
 overseer, and relied more upon her own expe 
 rience and observation. This worried Sebas 
 tian, and he was beginning to ask himself if 
 Senora Gintaris intended to manage the ranch 
 without his help. Though for many years he 
 had been in her employ, in his inmost heart 
 he knew that no one employed on the ranch 
 was indispensable to her. There was no one 
 for whose place she could not provide a sub 
 stitute. The whole of her large property was 
 easily to be managed by Senora Gintaris. 
 
 Strict in the management of temporal 
 affairs, she was equally strict in regard to 
 spiritual duties, and those who lived, or 
 worked on Otero ranch were expected to 
 practice many of the daily observances usual 
 only at the Missions. Senora Gintaris was a 
 devout Catholic and bowed to the will of the 
 church with a reverence and submission that 
 was a splendid example to all who knew her. 
 
 Every day at noon, a bell attached to a 
 sycamore tree was rung, and every one on the 
 ranch for a few minutes stopped work and 
 repeated a prayer. Old Sebastian, whose 
 
JUAN Pico 33 
 
 temper kept him bad friends with Amelia, the 
 cook, if he were near her at this hour, would 
 look at her and say : 
 
 " Madam, I hope you are well to-day," and 
 his heart would soften just a little. 
 
 This noon-bell was ringing as Juan Pico 
 entered the little plaza, which on three sides 
 was bounded by the connecting verandas of 
 the house. He had started the morning be 
 fore from the San Gabriel Mission, and he was 
 dusty and tired. Lifting his sombrero he 
 stood for a few moments with bowed head, 
 then he walked on toward Sebastian who was 
 now leaning in the shade against a support to 
 the veranda. 
 
 Sebastian said nothing, he did not even 
 smile, but after looking furtively about, offered 
 Juan a cigarette. Juan hesitated, then with 
 a questioning gesture he accepted it. After a 
 moment, both men went slowly over to a 
 bench under a large old orange tree, just out 
 side the court. Sebastian seated himself with 
 the lingering carefulness of an old man, but 
 Juan stood looking at the house. His eyes 
 first glanced along the verandas, then toward 
 
34 JUAN PICO 
 
 one window, then toward another. Presently 
 he sat down beside Sebastian, saying : 
 
 " Where is the Senora ? " 
 
 " She has just gone down to the lower end 
 of the orange grove." 
 
 For awhile they puffed at their cigarettes 
 in silence ; Sebastian waited for Juan to ask 
 further questions. But he did not. When 
 Sebastian could keep silent no longer, he took 
 hold of Juan's arm and said : 
 
 " Pico, there is something on the Senora's 
 mind. For almost a week she has not sent for 
 me. That has never happened before. I 
 don't know what it means no one but the 
 priest knows all the Senora's got in her head ; 
 but she's thinking something over, you can 
 gamble upon that." 
 
 Sebastian looked questioningly at Juan as 
 though inviting his confidence, but Juan only 
 rubbed his heavy hands together, and puffed 
 somewhat less lazily at his cigarette, before 
 asking : 
 
 " Has any one from San Gabriel been here 
 lately ? 
 
 " No one, why do you ask ? " 
 
JUAN PICO 35 
 
 Juan threw his cigarette away and stood 
 up: 
 
 " Oh, I wanted to know. I shall walk 
 down into the orange grove and see the 
 Senora." 
 
 "JSTo, Pico," said Sebastian, catching at 
 Juan's sleeve. "No; the Senora left word 
 that she would see no one." 
 
 Observing that Juan stood as though un 
 decided, Sebastian added with a look of cun 
 ning: 
 
 "Don't you try to see the Senora to-day, 
 Pico." 
 
 Juan looked at Sebastian but said nothing ; 
 they lighted fresh cigarettes and walked in 
 silence over to the sheep corral. 
 
 " Por Dios ! " said Juan, leaning against the 
 fence. " When are you going to have those 
 sheep sheared ? " 
 
 "Just as soon as we can get shearers," 
 replied Sebastian. 
 
 "There is not less than eight hundred 
 pounds on those sheep," said Juan, glancing 
 critically over the animals, for he could cal 
 culate almost to a pound on the sheep. 
 
36 JUAN PICO 
 
 " Poor devils ! " he exclaimed, " I am sorry 
 for them." 
 
 Under the beating violence of the sun, the 
 sheep panted in extreme exhaustion; they 
 were almost dead with the weight of the 
 wool. Around the corral thousands of grass 
 hoppers sang their everlasting songs of sun 
 and summer, and in a neighboring tree a 
 locust buzzed incessantly. 
 
 Turning, the men began to walk slowly back 
 toward the court, the maids in the kitchen 
 watching and gossiping about them. Pres 
 ently, Anita passed along the veranda, and the 
 women subdued their voices, but watched 
 Juan more sharply than before. 
 
 Anita walked on into her own room and sat 
 down by the window. Looking out she 
 caught ,sight of the approaching figures, and 
 her dark, pretty cheeks became, if possible, 
 more rosy than the geraniums vined about 
 her window. Instantly she arose and disap 
 peared. In a moment she had returned, car 
 rying her guitar. Glancing out at Juan she 
 began to play. The two men halted for a 
 second, looking at her, then Sebastian said 
 
JUAN PICO 37 
 
 something to Juan in a low voice. Juan paid 
 no attention ; but went straight on to the 
 house, stepped up on the veranda and stood 
 outside Anita's window. She looked up with 
 a bird-like turn of the head, nodded, and 
 smiled at him, showing her pretty teeth, but 
 did not stop singing. In one hand Juan held 
 his sombrero, the other hand rested upon his 
 hip. He looked down at Anita with a burn 
 ing flush on his cheek, watching her intently 
 and thinking : 
 
 " She is as fair as the Virgin. How pretty 
 her hair grows about her face and neck, and 
 that red blossom so close to her ear, if I dared 
 to whisper as close to her as that." 
 
 Again she smiled up at him, his eyes grew 
 more burning. 
 
 " How happy she is what if the stories of 
 her parents that the Senora has told me are 
 true? The Senora does not mind them her 
 self. I do not believe they will make a little 
 nun of her." 
 
 Anita finished playing and took the ribbon 
 of the guitar from about her neck. Placing 
 the instrument upon the window-sill beside 
 
38 JUAN PICO 
 
 her, she drew some needlework from a little 
 basket and began to sew. 
 
 Juan looked admiringly at her lovely ring- 
 less hands, and her perfect flower-like face, 
 saying : 
 
 " Are you not glad to see me, Anita ? " 
 
 "It is so many days since you were 
 here; but, perhaps, I am glad to see you, 
 Juan." 
 
 She was rosy to her temples, and although 
 she smiled, her voice was the least bit re 
 proachful. Juan looked at her attentively 
 and said slowly : 
 
 " It is a long time to me, Anita, but I do 
 not think that the Senora likes to have me 
 come to Otero ranch any more." 
 
 " The Madre does not like you to come here 
 any more, Juan?" asked Anita, in astonish 
 ment. 
 
 Juan reflected a moment : 
 
 " Anita, it is this way, the last time I was 
 here, the Senora said to me, ' Juan Pico, my 
 Anita is no longer to go out in the groves, or 
 to go to see the sheep with you.' ' ! 
 
 Anita's needle stopped ; she looked up into 
 
JUAN PICO 39 
 
 Juan's piercing eyes, then down upon her 
 work. Juan continued : 
 
 " And, Anita, if I cannot see you, I do not 
 want to come to Otero ranch. Anita, I love 
 you. I must see you. Tell me, Anita, do you 
 love me ? " 
 
 He held out his swarthy right hand. Anita 
 rose, swaying slightly as a flower sways be 
 fore an advancing flame, put her firm little 
 hand in his, and said softly : 
 
 " Yes, Juan." 
 
 "A'Dios! then; I shall go to the Senora at 
 once. Shall I tell her that you love me also ? " 
 
 " Yes, Juan." 
 
 " And I will come back," he cried, kissing 
 passionately the soft brown hand that still lay 
 in his, " after I have seen the Senora." Once 
 more he kissed Anita's hand, then hastily left 
 her. 
 
 Sebastian, who had been watching the two 
 and looking from time to time away from 
 them down toward the orange grove, now came 
 to meet Juan ; walking along beside him, he 
 shook his white head and vainly tried to dis 
 suade him from going down into the grove. 
 
40 JUAN PICO 
 
 From the window Anita saw and wondered 
 at Sebastian's excited gesticulations, and she 
 followed Juan with her eyes as he outstripped 
 the old man and disappeared under the branches 
 of the orange trees, then she picked up the 
 guitar and went away. 
 
 When Sebastian turned around his crafty 
 face wore an alarmed look, his eyes twitched 
 and the wrinkles under the shadow of his 
 broad sombrero gathered together in ugly 
 meshes about his sunken eyes. With a lag 
 ging step, he came back into the shadow of 
 the veranda and sat down. 
 
 In the kitchen Amelia chuckled over Sebas 
 tian's discomfiture, and said to the women 
 busy about her, loud enough for him to over 
 hear : 
 
 "Did you see him ordering Senor Pico 
 about ? Next thing we know he'll be telling 
 the Senora what he'll have to eat, and then 
 he'll be coming in here and ordering me how 
 much chile to put into the concarne." 
 
 To the insulting laughter of the maids 
 Sebastian paid an angry attention, but his 
 own thoughts sufficiently employed him, and 
 
JUAN PICO 41 
 
 he did not reply. In a short time he went 
 away to carry out the orders Seiiora Gintaris 
 had given him for the remainder of the day. 
 
 The afternoon wore on. Anita looked in 
 vain for the return of Juan. She sewed, she 
 sang, she fluttered about the veranda, and a 
 fresh scarlet gardenia blossom appeared in her 
 glossy braids. Hour after hour she waited 
 patiently, but Juan Pico did not come back. 
 
 When the Seiiora returned to the house at 
 sunset, she asked for Sebastian, but he was no 
 where to be found. As she paused on the 
 veranda looking out over the fields, the short 
 twilight vanished into night like a lamp that 
 has been extinguished. Anita was softly sing 
 ing to her guitar, "O, Salutaris ! " Seiiora 
 Gintaris sighed, half saying to herself : 
 
 " My little singing thrush ! God grant that 
 she may always be spared to gladden my life." 
 
 Yoice and instrument were suddenly silent ; 
 a light from within shone out on the veranda. 
 
 "Madre mi ! " called Anita. 
 
 "Here, my child," answered Senora Gin 
 taris. 
 
 In an instant Anita came running out, her 
 
42 JUAN PICO 
 
 guitar still hanging about her neck. Throw 
 ing her arms around the Senora she said : 
 
 " I have been so lonely, madre mi, you have 
 been so long away and Juan Pico, is he here, 
 too?" 
 
 " No, my child, he is gone to Los Angeles." 
 
 " Is he coming back, soon ? " queried Anita, 
 timidly. 
 
 Senora Gintaris accepted the coffee brought 
 to her, and then replied as though question 
 and answer were of little moment : 
 
 " Juan Pico, my child, is like all young men 
 of his stamp, he goes from place to place as 
 easily as a bird flies. I do not think he is 
 coming back." 
 
 Senora Gintaris continued to drink her cof 
 fee and to eat of the meal that had been put 
 on a small table close to her chair. Anita's 
 eyes filled with tears. She did not move. 
 The Senora went on speaking : 
 
 "We have a wonderful orange crop this 
 year, and the packers have done good work 
 to-day. But, Anita, have you remembered 
 old Lucinda's medicine ? is it made fresh for 
 her?" 
 
JUAN PICO 43 
 
 " No, madre mi, I I had forgotten." 
 
 " See to it now, my dear, and that she wants 
 nothing for the night. I am tired ; in a little 
 while you shall sing to me." 
 
 "Yes, madre mi;" and Anita went away 
 with fresh tears in her eyes to look after the 
 old nurse. 
 
 The Senora had finished eating and was 
 sitting quietly in the moonlight, her hands 
 folded in her lap, when Sebastian came up to 
 the low step. The Senora said nothing, she 
 did not even turn her eyes in his direction. 
 At length Sebastian asked deferentially : 
 
 " The Senora has orders for me ? " 
 
 "Had orders for you," she said slowly. 
 Then she rose. "I will go into the garden. 
 Come there." 
 
 She walked before him and reaching a 
 bench under an orange tree sat down. Se 
 bastian stood before her. Shining through 
 the branches, the moonlight formed an ill- 
 shaped checker-board of light and shade on 
 the ground between them. After a short 
 pause, the Senora spoke with a stern com 
 posure ; 
 
44 JUAN PICO 
 
 " Juan Pico was at the house to-day ? " 
 
 "Yes, Senora." 
 
 "Had I not given you orders, if he came 
 here in my absence, you should send him 
 away at once ? " 
 
 " Senora, I " Sebastian stopped, confused. 
 
 "And you have allowed that gambler to 
 remain on the place and even to follow me 
 down into the grove." 
 
 " Senora, I tried to send him away without 
 making him angry." 
 
 " Ah ! It is better that I should be angry, 
 is it? You forget that I am mistress here. 
 To-morrow I will send you your wages to the 
 end of the season." 
 
 " Senora, I am an old man, I will never 
 disobey you again." 
 
 " I can no longer trust you. For sometime 
 you have been slack in carrying out my or 
 ders. This ends it." 
 
 "Senora, I have served you faithfully for 
 years. I have what will you do without 
 me?" 
 
 "Miserable wretch! You are of no more 
 use to me than an untrustworthy dog. You 
 
JUAN PICO 45 
 
 are dismissed. Do you hear ? You are dis 
 missed. Never let me see you on Otero ranch 
 again." 
 
 The Senora rose to her feet, turned her 
 back upon Sebastian and went up the moon 
 lit walk. 
 
 Sebastian stood for some moments as if 
 dazed, he had never before heard the Senora 
 use such terms of wrath ; but never before had 
 any one disobeyed her. He was convulsed 
 by a rage so great as to distort both his face 
 and his figure, and standing in the silvery sea 
 of moonlight in the midst of that lovely gar 
 den, he looked like some hideous snake coiled 
 ready to strike. As he started to walk away 
 imprecations and threats against the Senora 
 fell mumblingly from his lips, and looking up 
 and shaking his fist toward heaven, he swore : 
 
 " May God and all the devils in hell torture 
 me, if I do not have revenge ! " 
 
THEEE 
 
 " Touch not that maid : 
 She is a flower, and changeth but to fade. 
 Fragrant is she and fair 
 As any shape that haunts the lower air ; 
 In form as graceful and as free 
 As honeysuckles and the lilies be ; 
 Insensible and shrinking from caress 
 As flowers which you peril when you press." 
 
 DOUGLAS B. W. SLADEN. 
 
 ANITA was feeding the peacocks in a broad 
 garden path ; their brilliant plumage shone 
 with metallic lustre as they moved about pick 
 ing up the grains scattered on the ground, or 
 reaching up to take them from her hand. It 
 was early morning ; birds sang in the trees ; 
 clear drops of dew glistened like rubies on the 
 petals of the flowers. 
 
 Sebastian from behind a geranium hedge 
 stealthily watched the pretty scene. Anita 
 finished feeding the birds; then she walked 
 down a shaded pathway toward the road. He 
 hurried on before her and placed himself under 
 an almond tree, contriving as he went, by 
 slight noises of his stick on the hard path to 
 46 
 
JUAN PICO 47 
 
 attract her attention. He did not move until 
 Anita almost reached him. Then he stooped, 
 lifted a bundle from the ground at his feet 
 and slung it over his shoulder from a short 
 stick. He started as if to walk away. 
 
 " Sebastian ! Sebastian ! " called Anita, 
 " wait a minute." 
 
 The old man paused and looked back. 
 Anita ran up to him fresh and blushing as a 
 newly opened rose. Her hair was loosely 
 coiled about her head, and in it she had placed 
 a dark-red rose. 
 
 " Why, where are you going, Sebastian ? " 
 
 " To Los Angeles." 
 
 " To Los Angeles ! " repeated Anita. Then 
 noticing the cane he carried in his hand, she 
 asked : 
 
 " Are you going to walk all the way ? " 
 
 " Yes, Senorita," and he began to walk on 
 again with the young girl beside him. 
 
 " Why do you not take one of the Senora's 
 horses?" 
 
 " Senora Gintaris will need them." 
 
 " Sebastian, why are you going to Los An 
 geles?" 
 
48 JUAN PICO 
 
 " Because the Senora wants me to go." 
 
 " Los Angeles. Oh ! How I should love to 
 see that city ! " 
 
 Then turning aside she said in a whisper : 
 
 " God forgive me for wishing it." 
 
 The old man looked strangely at her, stepped 
 a little closer to her and whispered : 
 
 " Why should you not see it ? " 
 
 "Why should she not?" The thought 
 flashed through her mind like lightning 
 through a cloud. Then she sighed : 
 
 "Never, Sebastian, I shall never see it. 
 The Senora will never take me. And besides 
 it is so far away. It must be twenty-five 
 miles." 
 
 " True, it is all of that, but I shall be there 
 before the sun sets." 
 
 " What is it like, Sebastian ? Are all the 
 ladies beautiful and are all the men hand 
 some ? " 
 
 " Not one of the ladies is as beautiful as the 
 singing thrush, and none of them can sing so 
 sweetly. Some of the men are handsome, for 
 Juan Pico is there." 
 
 " Is he ? is he ? Oh, how I should love to 
 
JUAN PICO 49 
 
 see him! Father Ambrose loves him, the 
 Senora also. Juan Pico's father is a saint, 
 and Juan Pico is surely a good man." 
 
 " Yes, Senorita, he is a good man, but he is 
 very unhappy." 
 
 " Unhappy, Sebastian, that is not so." 
 
 " Yes, I am telling you the truth ; " again he 
 leaned toward her, " he is unhappy because he 
 cannot see you." 
 
 " But, why does he not come back again ? " 
 
 " Alas ! The Senora has sent him away, 
 and told him never to come back. I am going 
 to him." 
 
 "Anyway, you will come back, Sebastian, 
 and then I shall hear about him." 
 
 "No, Senorita, I shall never come back; 
 the Senora has sent me away, also. I am 
 going to serve Juan Pico." 
 
 Anita was weeping, she clasped her hands 
 together : 
 
 "Are you sure the Senora does not love 
 Juan Pico?" 
 
 " I am sure ; she has sent me away because 
 I love him." 
 
 "Then I shall never see him, never hear 
 
50 JUAN PICO 
 
 of him any more." She was crying distress 
 fully. 
 
 " There is one way," he said, with cautious 
 emphasis, " for you to see him, Seiiorita, come 
 with me to Los Angeles." 
 
 Anita's frame trembled, but in an instant 
 her tears ceased falling. They had reached 
 the fence over which a wild Muscat grape 
 twined. Tendrils of its outstretched branches 
 seemed clingingly to embrace the child, as she 
 steadied herself by putting one hand on a 
 thick branch of the vine. 
 
 "But I couldn't, Sebastian, the Senora 
 wouldn't let me go." 
 
 " No, but if I take you, you can go without 
 her consent. And when we get to Juan, he 
 will be so good to you that the Senora will let 
 him come to Otero ranch again." 
 
 "Do you think she would, Sebastian?" 
 asked Anita, half doubtfully. 
 
 " Of course she would. And Juan will show 
 you the city and buy you everything you want." 
 
 "And would he take me to the sea, and 
 show me the great ships sailing down to 
 Mexico?" 
 
JUAN PICO 51 
 
 Sebastian answered softly : 
 
 " Yes, he will show you the great ships." 
 
 Anita almost laughed as she exclaimed : 
 
 " The glorious ships that glide over the water 
 like great white birds in the air." 
 
 " Like birds in the air," repeated Sebastian. 
 
 " Oh ! I should be so happy." 
 
 " Juan will take you to the grand cathedral 
 to hear the music ; he will take you out to the 
 old San Gabriel Mission." 
 
 Anita looked like a statue of happiness. 
 
 "He will take you up into the mountains 
 and show you all the city of Los Angeles." 
 
 "There in the churches, I will hear the 
 music made by the great golden organs that 
 the Senora has told me of." 
 
 " Yes, Senorita ; and sometimes you and 
 Juan will spend a whole day by the sea." 
 
 " And gather shells in the sand." 
 
 "Come, Senorita, come with old Sebastian. 
 Let us go to Juan. He will no longer be un 
 happy when you are with him. Come, Senor 
 ita, come to Juan." 
 
 " Yes," cried Anita, her breast lifting with 
 her happy breath ; " I will come." 
 
52 JUAN PICO 
 
 " Then get your hat ; I will wait for you," 
 said the old man as he passed through the gate 
 and sat down among the flowers by the road. 
 
 Anita quickly ran back to the house. She 
 crossed the court now full of blooming camel 
 lias and of pink flowering fuchsias. How dif 
 ferently it all appeared than it had yesterday, 
 and yet the same red geraniums grew in the 
 flower pots, the same linnets sang in the wicker 
 cages, and the maids were as usual at work in 
 the kitchen. No one observed her. Hastily 
 putting on her hat, she glanced about the room, 
 as it might have been for the last time, and 
 saw on a chair her guitar. 
 
 " I shall want it in the city. Juan loves to 
 hear me sing and play." 
 
 But she heard the Senora moving about in 
 her own room ; the two rooms connected, the 
 Senora might see her, might call to her. She 
 slipped the ribbon of the guitar over her head 
 and ran noiselessly from the house. 
 
 As she neared the ranch gate a peacock 
 sprang upon it with a scream of delight. Fear 
 ing to frighten the pretty creature, she opened 
 the cumbrous gate softly, softly she let it 
 
JUAN PICO 53 
 
 swing to behind her. The little singing thrush 
 had flown out of Otero ranch. 
 
 Sebastian was still sitting among the flowers ; 
 Anita could see his tall pointed sombrero and 
 long white beard. As she walked along the 
 road, Sebastian caught sight of her, got up on 
 his feet and waited for her. So young, so pure, 
 so gentle, her beauty almost made him pity 
 her. Her hat was an old straw affair, that 
 looked for all the world like a magpie's nest. 
 From its brim a few old faded roses fell, under 
 it her cheeks glowed and her eyes sparkled 
 with excitement. A gown of old faded blue 
 material came above her ankles. Short sleeves 
 displayed her beautifully rounded arms, and 
 the old yellow guitar swung from side to side 
 as she walked along through the yellow snap 
 dragons and wild mustard. 
 
 Sebastian was also dressed in blue, and his 
 clothes were faded and torn. His soft white 
 beard reached well over his breast, one hand 
 held the stick from which hung the bundle on 
 his shoulder, the other held a rough cane. 
 Both these showed he was traveling, for Se 
 bastian had never used a cane on the ranch, 
 
54 JUAN PICO 
 
 They were a curious couple, and had any 
 one passed them on the road, he would have 
 been struck by the contrast between them, the 
 old man so bent and haggard, the young girl 
 so full of grace and beauty. Trudging along 
 side by side, were the extremes of life. One 
 had seen too much of the world, the other 
 knew perilously little of it. Disappointment 
 marked the face of one ; on the face of the 
 other were painted interest and expectation. 
 
 " Let me carry the bundle," said Anita. 
 
 " No, Senorita ; it is not heavy." 
 
 " But it will be heavy soon." 
 
 " Then we will rest. We will take a long 
 rest over in the canon by the stream. It is 
 a beautiful canon. All along by the water 
 grow the tall blue larkspur and the mariposa 
 lily." 
 
 " And I will sing and play for you. Let us 
 go to the canon now." 
 
 "Not yet, not yet, it is three miles away." 
 
 " O, Sebastian, let us hurry. I want to see 
 the canon and I am very thirsty. You walk 
 so slowly. See, I am always ahead of you." 
 
 " I will try and walk faster," 
 
JUAN PICO 55 
 
 " Forgive me," said the girl. " I know you 
 are old." 
 
 " Ah, Senorita, my body is old, but my heart 
 is young, young while you are near me. If 
 you are gay, I will be happy. Do not be sad, 
 Senorita." 
 
 "I will be always gay," laughed Anita, 
 looking back. 
 
 Neither complained, though the sun climbed 
 high in the burning heaven, and the dazzling 
 heat flickered before them. Anita went in 
 advance ; she gathered flowers, that, dropping 
 from her overladen arms were crushed beneath 
 the heavy feet of Sebastian. 
 
 New life seemed to flow through Sebastian's 
 veins. And he longed to take the young girl 
 in his arms and caress her. Regrets swept 
 over him like a tidal wave, as overwhelming a 
 phantom of happiness that had come too late. 
 Why had this vision of loveliness come into his 
 life now ? What curse was upon him ? These 
 were his thoughts and reflections. He muttered 
 in his beard. 
 
 "What did you say, Sebastian?" askecl 
 Anita, who almost caught his words. 
 
56 JUAN PICO 
 
 "Nothing, Seiiorita, nothing; I was only 
 thinking." 
 
 "Were you thinking of the great white- 
 winged ships that go sailing down to Mex 
 ico ? " 
 
 " Yes ; thinking of the ships that sailed away, 
 and never came back again." 
 
 "How strange you look, Sebastian. Are 
 you tired ? Shall I sing to you ? " 
 
 "No, not now. Wait until we are in the 
 canon, then the music will all be ours and the 
 birds. Over there, the trees will be large and 
 shady, and we will sit on a bed of ferns ; and 
 there you can gather the white iris out of the 
 pools." 
 
 " Is that the place where it grows ? " 
 
 "Yes, there little Miguel always goes to 
 gather it for the Seiiora." 
 
 " Do you know what the Senora says the 
 iris means ? " 
 
 " No, what does it mean, Seiiorita ? " 
 
 " It means the eye of heaven," answered the 
 girl, reverently, " and it is beautiful enough to 
 be likened to the eye of heaven, is it not ? " 
 
 They crossed the road and followed a foot- 
 
JUAN PICO 57 
 
 path which went along the edge of a hill. 
 The path led directly into the canon. They 
 were traveling southward, and the low hills 
 known as the mesa lay before them. As they 
 drew nearer to the canon, the great trees 
 wandered out to meet them, and to offer their 
 cool, refreshing shade. The little silvery brook 
 laughed over the pebbles, and bathed the roots 
 of the reeds and rushes along its banks. A 
 soft breeze murmured through the leafy 
 shadows of the trees whose tall tops, only, 
 were touched by the sun. Great moss-covered 
 rocks hung from the sides of the canon, and 
 from their crevices large plume-like ferns 
 depended. There was a feeling of magic in 
 the air. To Anita, it was fairyland, or the 
 realization of a dream. Further and further 
 into the canon they followed the little stream. 
 Anita running hither and thither, gathered 
 the fairest flowers in the glen. Her old straw 
 hat was now filled with " Eyes of Heaven," 
 and on her breast was a spray of camellias. 
 Into old Sebastian's beard she had braided the 
 spotless blossoms of the blood-root. He was 
 transported beyond himself. He was no 
 
68 JUAN PICO 
 
 longer the Sebastian of yesterday. This wild 
 fantastic child of nature had fascinated him. 
 He watched her every movement as a serpent 
 watches the thing it will devour. The sway 
 ing of her graceful form among the trees, 
 the ripple of her merry laugh caused every 
 fibre in his body to leap with joy. If she 
 passed from his view, he would run after her, 
 pushing the thick tangled branches aside and 
 sometimes stumbling in his haste. As one who 
 is intoxicated forgets the kind of man he is, 
 so Sebastian forgot his hideous past. 
 
 " Senorita ! Senorita ! " 
 
 He called, but she did not answer. She 
 was hiding, only to surprise him a moment 
 later, when she came bounding from behind a 
 rock with a long spray of passion flowers 
 twisted round and round her waist like a 
 girdle, and falling to her feet. The old man 
 threw himself upon the ground. Anita flung 
 herself into a wild dance before him. Her 
 graceful form floated before his eager eyes. 
 At first, she danced slowly, only her arms 
 moving perceptibly; then swiftly advancing 
 and retreating, she began to spring and wheel 
 
JUAN PICO 59 
 
 about him, and all the while her silvery voice 
 was ringing in the trees. Each time she came 
 near, she threw a wild passion flower at his 
 feet. His mind reeled. He rose excitedly to 
 his feet. He ran toward her, but she darted 
 into the trees, and was gone. Only the ring 
 ing of her joyous laugh echoed around him ; 
 now near, now far ; now on one side of the 
 brook, and now on the other. 
 
 It was a moment of extreme happiness for 
 both. Sebastian had experienced no such be 
 witching sensation in all his life. In his youth 
 he had seen great dancers on the stage in the 
 City of Mexico. He had heard the greatest 
 prima donna that ever lived, while in San 
 Francisco, but this was the very acme of all 
 that he had ever heard or seen. It was an 
 experience to be remembered until death 
 should claim him forever. Into his cunning 
 brain came the thought : 
 
 " What would the theatres of the big cities 
 not give for such an attraction ? But no one 
 shall know that Anita can dance. That shall 
 be for my eyes alone." 
 
 A new world had opened up before him. 
 
60 JUAN PICO 
 
 Like wine to a drunkard dying of thirst, the 
 strange indescribable exhilaration of youth 
 came surging back through his veins. Suddenly 
 he drew his white brows together in anger ; he 
 muttered a thousand curses upon himself and 
 upon his age. Then he burst out with the 
 words : 
 
 " "Why am I no longer young ? Why am I 
 not like Juan Pico ? " After a moment his ex 
 pression changed, he looked craftily about, 
 then he laughed aloud : " Ha ! ha ! What a 
 fool I would have been if I had not changed 
 my mind. Yes, Sebastian, look out for your 
 self, first. The world owes you the debt of 
 a lifetime, here is your chance for payment. 
 Take it. But if you want to collect it, don't 
 let her see Juan Pico again." He looked 
 down at his withered limbs, and he thought of 
 Juan Pico, full of life and energy. A look of 
 determination crossed his face, "Why should 
 I not be the same ? I will I will ! " 
 
 Fate had been cruel to him. With wrath 
 he looked back upon the irony of time. 
 Though he gazed at his three score years with 
 all the bitterness of which his degraded and 
 
JUAN PICO 61 
 
 merciless disposition was capable, he was no 
 longer hopeless. In his excitement he did not 
 forget the revenge he was to wreak upon Se- 
 nora Gintaris. 
 
 While he pondered over these thoughts 
 Anita returned and sat down beside him. He 
 opened his bundle and took out a lunch. 
 
 " Shall we stay in the canon all day, Se- 
 norita ? It is so cool and beautiful." 
 
 " No, Sebastian, it will soon get dark, and I 
 want to see Juan." 
 
 " Yery well, then, we will follow the trail 
 and pass along the other side of the moun 
 tain. It will be shady there, for the sun 
 is now beginning to cast a shadow. "We 
 will walk slowly, for the trail is hard in 
 places." 
 
 " I shall not mind it, Sebastian, and if you 
 are tired you shall lean on me." 
 
 The old man was sitting close beside her ; he 
 now took her hand in his, saying : 
 
 "I shall buy a pretty ring for the little 
 thrush when we get to Los Angeles, a plain 
 gold ring like the Senora's." 
 
 "Why, Sebastian!" she said, rising and 
 
62 JUAN PICO 
 
 drawing her hand away, "do the unmarried 
 ladies in the city wear rings ? " 
 
 " Some do," replied the old man. 
 
 "But, Sebastian, we must hurry to Juan. 
 Come, he will be so happy to see me, and I 
 will sing and dance for him in Los Angeles." 
 
 Then she ran along, alternately hurrying on 
 in advance, and waiting for the old man to 
 catch up with her. Sebastian with eyes fixed 
 in their sockets followed her as quickly as he 
 could. Thus without looking back they left 
 the flowery quietude behind them. 
 
FOUK 
 
 " Sad is our youth, for it is ever going, 
 
 Crumbling away beneath our very feet ; 
 Sad is our life, for onward it is flowing 
 In current unperceived, because so fleet." 
 
 AUBREY DE VERB. 
 
 " SEBASTIAN, how soon shall we be in Los 
 Angeles?" 
 
 " We shall be there to-morrow." 
 
 " To-morrow ? to-morrow ! If we hurry can 
 we not be there to-night ? " 
 
 "No." 
 
 " O, Sebastian ! And I am so tired, I can 
 not walk much longer. Let us go home. I 
 did not know it was such a long walk to Los 
 Angeles." 
 
 " You could not walk back to Otero ranch 
 to-night. It is too far, besides, you would lose 
 your way alone." 
 
 " How far are we from home, Sebastian ? " 
 
 "Fifteen miles." 
 
 " Fifteen miles," she repeated mournfully. 
 63 
 
64 JUAN PICO 
 
 " What a long way. Do you think they have 
 forgotten to water the azaleas and the gera 
 niums ? " 
 
 " No, Senorita, nothing has been forgotten." 
 
 Pretty soon she asked : 
 
 " Where are we going ? Must we walk all 
 night?" 
 
 " We are going to San Fernando." 
 
 "Is it as large a place as San Buenaven 
 tura?" 
 
 " No, but it is much more beautiful. The 
 streets are wide and the waving pepper trees 
 grow there." 
 
 They trudged along silently, and as they 
 walked side by side, Anita had a feeling come 
 over her of respect, almost of tenderness to 
 ward the old man. She had sudden impulses 
 of longing to speak to him, as to a father, but 
 the words always stopped in her throat, and 
 she said nothing. After a sharp turn in the 
 road, they came out from under the trees. 
 Sebastian stepped close to her, saying : 
 
 "Senorita, these are the ruins of the old 
 San Fernando Mission." 
 
 Anita looked at its solemn arches and grace- 
 
JUAN PICO 65 
 
 ful turrets etched clearly against the steel-like 
 sky, and at the pale white nioon now illuminat 
 ing the deserted corridors that lay hushed in 
 everlasting silence. Years had come and gone 
 since chanting and prayer had rung through 
 these ruined spaces. 
 
 " When I was a boy, the Padres spent their 
 happy days here. I remember a grand cele 
 bration when priests came down from San 
 Miguel, and up from San Diego. They were 
 dressed in gorgeous vestments brought all the 
 way from Spain, silk robes embroidered in 
 gold and silver and precious stones. Crosses 
 of pure gold glistened on their backs. The 
 Saviour's hands were nailed to embroidered 
 crosses with nails of uncut amethysts. In 
 their bare feet they walked, singing : * Holy, 
 Holy, Holy, Lord God Almighty.' I had 
 never seen anything so wonderful before. 
 Then the country was wild and unsettled, 
 but every one for miles and miles around came 
 to the celebration. That was before the dis 
 covery of gold, and every one was happy." 
 
 Anita sighed deeply. Yague thoughts came 
 to her, but the words in which to form them, 
 
66 JUAN PICO 
 
 like the language of dreams, remained unborn 
 upon her lips. At last she said meditatively : 
 
 " Yes, Sebastian, I have heard the Senora 
 tell how happy the Padres were. She said 
 they were happy because they were good." 
 
 " Happy because they were good," repeated 
 Sebastian, and he began to walk wearily, but 
 unconscious of his weariness, for his thoughts 
 were back in the past, reviewing the vividly 
 gaudy pageant that had delighted his boy 
 ish eyes. The memory of it brought a fleet 
 ing pleasure to his childish age. He became 
 steeped in a temporary forgetfulness of the 
 present until Anita spoke, rousing him from 
 his revery. 
 
 " Do you think they have forgotten to feed 
 the peacocks ? " 
 
 "No, Seiiorita, they have forgotten noth 
 ing." 
 
 "I wonder if they have gathered fresh 
 flowers for the Virgin." 
 
 " They have forgotten nothing, I tell you." 
 And there was a tone of disapproval in his 
 voice. 
 
 Anita looked at him resentfully. But he 
 
JUAN PICO 67 
 
 seemed so old and miserable that she for 
 got his peevish reply and felt for him only 
 pity. A strange feeling of sadness had fallen 
 on Sebastian in which his soul congealed. 
 His hollow chest was racked by painful 
 gasps. 
 
 " Sebastian, what is the matter ? are you as 
 tired as I am ? I wish we were at home ! " 
 
 " The Senorita must be happy and not look 
 back, for to-morrow we will be in the great 
 city and go down to the sea." 
 
 " Then we will go to Juan ? " said Anita, 
 brightening up and almost ready to laugh 
 again. 
 
 Sebastian did not reply at once; then he 
 said slowly : 
 
 " Perhaps ; " his voice sounded like the mel 
 ancholy ringing of a bell whose vibrations die 
 in lifeless air. 
 
 "Perhaps? perhaps?" asked Anita, anx 
 iously, " do you not know where he is ? " 
 
 "Yes, yes," said Sebastian, "he is in the 
 city, but it is a large place ; you must be pa 
 tient, Senorita, patient " 
 
 " O, Sebastian, I thought we were going to 
 
68 JUAN PICO 
 
 him as soon as we got there. Don't you know 
 where to find him ? " 
 
 "I don't know just where he is, but we 
 will find him." 
 
 Anita put her hand to her breast, then 
 screamed. 
 
 "What is it, Senorita? what has hap 
 pened?" exclaimed the old man, trembling 
 and catching her by the arm. 
 
 "I have lost my rosary!" she cried, and 
 burst into tears. 
 
 " Oh, do not mind that, Senorita ; I will buy 
 you another when we get to Los Angeles." 
 
 " You can't buy another like it ; the beads 
 were of pure gold and the crucifix was of 
 ivory. The Seiiora gave it to me on my birth 
 day. Oh, what shall I do ? what shall I do 
 without it ? " 
 
 " Do not cry about it, learn to be a woman ; 
 you do not want to be thought a baby." 
 Sebastian's voice sounded harshly in Anita's 
 ears, and she longed for Senora Gintaris. Her 
 sense of desolation was increased by her loss ; 
 oh, if Juan were only near ! It seemed to her 
 as if the world was falling, with things pres- 
 
JUAN PICO 69 
 
 ent and things to come, into the very bottom 
 of a wretched void, of which, for the first time 
 in her life, she was aware. Now, Sebastian 
 walked in advance. She wept as if her heart 
 would break, remembering her vow to Seiiora 
 Gintaris that she would never part with the 
 rosary, and she longed to retrace every step 
 of the way searching for it until she should 
 find it. 
 
 " Sebastian, it must be over in the canon ; 
 can we not go back and look for it ? " 
 
 " No, Senorita ; it is too far, and by this 
 time some one must have picked it up." 
 
 In spite of her grief Anita was beginning to 
 feel angry, and possibly a little frightened. 
 How dreadful it was away from the Senora, 
 how strangely Sebastian looked and how 
 dared he speak to her like that ? They walked 
 on toward San Fernando. It was growing 
 late. Not a light was to be seen, nor any 
 wayfarer. The wide street stretching through 
 the town was shaded by pepper trees of enor 
 mous growth, just as Sebastian had said, but 
 Anita was too unhappy to look at them. They 
 traversed the length of this street, and came 
 
70 JUAN PICO 
 
 to where the houses were at long distances 
 from each other. 
 
 " Come, Senorita, here is where we will stay 
 to-night," said Sebastian, halting before a low 
 rambling adobe with a red-tiled roof. It formed 
 three sides of a square, in the centre of which 
 was a small court almost completely shaded by 
 a great pepper tree, whose waving branches 
 were filled with exquisite red berries. The 
 house itself set back from the street about 
 twenty feet, the walk leading to it was lined 
 with pink flowering oleanders now grown 
 to trees, and its front wall was covered with 
 a vining heliotrope, that exhaled its delicious 
 perfume into the night air. Along one side of 
 the house there was a rude bench. 
 
 " Here, Senorita," motioned Sebastian, " sit 
 down here until I come back." 
 
 " Do not be long, will you, Sebastian ? " said 
 Anita, fearing to be alone. Soon she heard 
 him rapping loudly at the door. In a few mo 
 ments she heard some one making a light, and 
 a woman's voice, such a voice as made Anita 
 tremble, called : 
 
 "Who is there?" 
 
JUAN PICO 71 
 
 " It is I, Sebastian," was his reply. 
 
 " Sebastian who ? " she called. 
 
 " Sebastian Carmelo." 
 
 Anita heard the heavy bolts withdrawn ; Se 
 bastian walked into the house, and the door 
 was closed. Alone and in the darkness, Anita 
 feared she knew not what. All was silent ; to 
 Anita it seemed an age before the woman 
 opened the door and called : 
 
 " Come in, my girl." 
 
 The woman stood partly concealed by the 
 door, which she closed and bolted as soon as 
 Anita stepped inside. By the light of a candle 
 thrust into a bottle, Anita saw first the knotted 
 bony hand that held it, then the yet more 
 hideous hand that shaded the flickering light 
 from the draught. Lifting her eyes she saw 
 in the sickly glow a face deeply furrowed as 
 though by physical pain, a tangled mass of 
 grey and black hair falling over uneven shoul 
 ders, bloodshot eyes protruding like the eyes 
 of a bug, and two great decayed tusks showing 
 as she mechanically opened and shut her ulcer 
 ous mouth. 
 
 Anita experienced a spasm of terror; her 
 
72 JUAN PICO 
 
 blood ran cold in her veins, and she would 
 have cried aloud had not Sebastian come 
 toward her from the deep shadow of the hall. 
 
 " O, Sebastian, take me away," she gasped, 
 but he merely took her hand, saying : 
 
 " Anita, do not be frightened, for your father 
 will take care of you." 
 
 The woman laughed shrilly, " Yes, yes, the 
 little one must do all that her father says ; he 
 will be so kind to her. Ha! Ha!" Her coarse 
 voice rang through the empty hall. " Come 
 this way." 
 
 A terrible trembling shook Anita ; she tried 
 to speak. Her throat was choked ; she looked 
 pitifully at Sebastian and avoided the touch of 
 the old woman. 
 
 "Go with her, Anita," said Sebastian, au 
 thoritatively. 
 
 Anita, struck with astonishment at his man 
 ner, tried to speak; then unable and over 
 whelmed, she followed the old woman into a 
 room leading out of the hall. Anita's eyes 
 darted to the windows through which she saw 
 the trees magnificently green standing in the 
 moonlight splashed here and there with white 
 
JUAN PICO 73 
 
 acacia blossoms. Within, she surveyed a 
 small, rudely furnished room, whose low ceil 
 ing appeared to be falling in with a heavy 
 weight overhead. Most of the paper had been 
 stripped from the wall. Sebastian stepped into 
 the room after them, and taking the candle 
 from the old woman, looked carefully about. 
 Anita's face was blanched with fear; tears 
 glistened in her large, blue eyes. Sebastian 
 looked at her with an air of cunning satisfac 
 tion, then set the candle on the mantel-shelf 
 before a rude picture of the dying Christ. 
 Even in the partial light, and though he had 
 ceased to look directly at her, he felt the glow 
 of Anita's eyes that rose toward him with ex 
 pressions of astonishment, of reproach, of anger. 
 The blood began to surge in her cheeks. She 
 stood helpless. Sebastian felt the air luke 
 warm, suave, intoxicating, as if the climate had 
 suddenly changed. On the hearth the white 
 cricket which brings good luck, was making 
 his shrill unpleasant music. Sebastian came 
 toward Anita, who had not ceased to tremble ; 
 she was afraid of the place, and of the woman, 
 and there was something in his look that made 
 
74 JUAN PICO 
 
 her fear him, also ; she shrank away from him, 
 but he grasped her in his arms and violently 
 pressed his thin purple lips to hers. She 
 screamed and struggled; Sebastian released 
 her, and without a word fled from the room. 
 
 In the hall outside, the old woman was ex 
 claiming : 
 
 " Sebastian, what are you doing to your 
 daughter ? " Her broken cachinations sounded 
 like the merriment of a lost soul. 
 
 Anita, pierced with shame, stood humiliated ; 
 the senses of a girl of thirteen count for little, 
 but she dreaded him. She was not his daugh 
 ter. He had no right to kiss her. 
 
 "O, madre mi," she said, "madre mi, madre 
 mi, if I could only be with you again ! I would 
 never go away again. If I do not find Juan, 
 I shall die." 
 
 Tears dried in her burning eyes that stared 
 upon the picture of the Christ. She tried to 
 pray, and again she felt for her lost rosary. 
 Then she fell upon the bed. At last tears 
 came, and dreadful sobs. All other sounds 
 were hushed in this terrible house, and outside 
 no leaf stirred, no bird sang. While she lay 
 
JUAN PICO 75 
 
 passionately weeping, she heard a vehicle 
 coming and raised up with a cry for help upon 
 her lips, but the horses at a furious rate dashed 
 by and she sank back upon the pillow. Too 
 soon the sound became only an echo. Then 
 even that was gone and stillness prevailed. 
 
 Afraid of those in the house and more afraid 
 of what might lie hidden in the shadows with 
 out, she lay suffering from terror and exhaus 
 tion until soft-footed sleep crept in, and pity 
 ing her, took her in her arms and showed her 
 pictures of Juan and of Los Angeles. 
 
FIVE 
 
 " The face which, duly as the sun, 
 Rose up for me with life begun, 
 To mark all bright hours of the day 
 With hourly love, is dimmed away " 
 
 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 
 
 SENOKA GINTAKIS was impatiently walking 
 up and down the veranda, looking in the direc 
 tion of the stables. 
 
 " Here is your coffee, Seiiora," said Dolores. 
 
 "Put it down, and go water the azaleas," 
 replied the Senora, as she seated herself on the 
 edge of her chair and hastily sipped the coffee. 
 
 Dolores passed along the veranda, which 
 was bordered by a thick carpet of purple 
 violets. Soon she returned with a watering- 
 can, and carefully refreshed, one by one, the 
 azaleas and also the geraniums, whose thick, 
 felt-like leaves drooped for the day had been 
 sultry. Then she gave the linnets fresh water. 
 Senora Gintaris glanced toward the maid : 
 
 " Do not forget a fresh bunch of camellias 
 for the Virgin, Dolores." 
 7$ 
 
JUAN PICO 77 
 
 " No, Senora ; " she began to pick a bouquet 
 of cape jasmin. Dolores could not remember 
 a day ever having passed without fresh flowers 
 being gathered and placed before the porce 
 lain statuette of the Virgin. 
 
 It was said that when the Senora's brother, 
 Don Carlos, had gone to the war, she had 
 made a vow to the Virgin, that if she guarded 
 and brought him home safely, a fresh bouquet 
 should daily be placed at her feet. At the 
 close of the war, Don Carlos, hearty and well, 
 returned to his home in Monterey, and the 
 Senora kept her vow, usually attending to the 
 flowers herself, always selecting the finest in 
 blossom on the ranch and preferably the white 
 ones. 
 
 Delicate wax-like camellias were the Senora's 
 favorite flowers and these she had cultivated 
 in a separate part of the garden. Whenever 
 any one from the ranch went up to Santa 
 Barbara, she always sent to the nuns at the 
 convent there, a large bunch of these exquis 
 ite flowers. It was a long drive to Santa 
 Barbara, but the Senora knew how to pack 
 flowers properly. 
 
78 JUAN PICO 
 
 Before she had finished drinking the coffee, 
 the Senora's alert ear heard the rolling of a 
 carriage. Quickly she passed down the front 
 path, and reached the gate just as Pedro drew 
 rein on the horses. Stepping into the phaeton, 
 she said : 
 
 " Are you sure Sebastian said he was going 
 to Los Angeles ? " 
 
 "Yes, Senora." 
 
 "Then drive with all haste; if possible, I 
 must be there by midnight." 
 
 "Yes, Senora." 
 
 It was now about eight o'clock and daylight 
 and dark had dissolved themselves into a 
 pretty twilight. A pale grey scarf of mist 
 dragged itself lazily over the meadows, and 
 the hills looked like dim shadows. The road 
 avoided the hills and canons, and kept well 
 into the broad, sweeping meadows. On either 
 side well-kept ranches stretched for miles. In 
 the distance could be seen the fields of tall 
 pampas grass and the low hills covered with 
 Muscat grapes. A fairer and more prosperous 
 stretch of country could not be found in all 
 California. 
 
JUAN PICO 79 
 
 Hardly had they traversed a mile, when 
 they saw a man standing in the middle of the 
 road examining something he had just picked 
 up. As they were passing him the Senora 
 saw that the object was a rosary. Calling to 
 Pedro to stop, she addressed the stranger : 
 
 " I beg your pardon, but will you allow me 
 to see that rosary ? " 
 
 " Yes, madam," replied the man, handing it 
 to her. " I found it half buried in the dust." 
 
 The Senora's heart leaped; it was Anita's 
 rosary. It was a beautiful affair with its 
 beads of gold and its pure white ivory crucifix, 
 and the Senora doubly prized it for it had 
 originally been given to her by her school 
 friend, Sister Magdalen, at the convent in 
 San Luis Obispo. 
 
 " My good man, this belongs to my daugh 
 ter, who has, I think, lately passed this way. 
 May I return it to her ? " 
 
 The stranger hesitated : 
 
 " Madam, I am poor and hungry. Is it not 
 worth a few pennies to buy something to eat ? " 
 
 A look of compassion came into the Senora's 
 eyes as she replied : 
 
80 JUAN PICO 
 
 " Below here, about a mile, you will come to 
 Otero ranch ; stop there, ask for Dolores, and 
 tell her that Senora Gintaris directs her to 
 give you some dinner, and to provide you 
 with quarters for the night." 
 
 "God bless you, madam, may the saints 
 protect you." 
 
 Senora Gintaris motioned Pedro to drive 
 on. Over the mesa the moon came up and 
 spread its ghostly glow along the dusty road. 
 From the wild rosebushes issued the songs of 
 nightingales, and occasionally in the distance 
 could be heard the plaintive notes of the 
 whippoorwill. Under the horses' hoofs the 
 road glided away and became a great cloud 
 of dust. Now and then, lights appeared and 
 disappeared in ranch-houses along the way. 
 Nothing escaped the Senora. They w r ere 
 more than half-way on their journey when 
 they came to a house, protected on the north 
 by a tall hedge of gloomy cypress trees, and 
 across the road was a grove of apricots. Di 
 rectly behind the house was a large barn. 
 Pedro drove into the yard and pulled up the 
 horses. The Senora alighted. Travelers us- 
 
JUAN PICO 81 
 
 ually stopped here, for it was the only com 
 fortable public house between San Buena 
 ventura and Los Angeles. It was a sort of 
 hotel, saloon and store combined. 
 
 Mrs. Lee, wife of the proprietor, hurried to 
 the door, carrying a lantern in one hand and 
 her crutch in the other. With her came four 
 or five dogs that set up a perfect bedlam of 
 barking. 
 
 " Down, Spanko," said the woman, striking 
 at one of the dogs with her crutch. " Good- 
 evening, Seiiora Gintaris, come this way, 
 please." 
 
 The Senora bowed and followed the land 
 lady to the piazza, sinking wearily into the 
 proffered chair. 
 
 Coming from the barn, the men began to 
 talk to Pedro and to rub down the horses that 
 were nervously pawing the ground. Pedro 
 went into the saloon and ordered a pint of wine. 
 
 " Will you have something to eat, Senora ? " 
 asked Mrs. Lee. 
 
 " No, thank you, I am only stopping for a 
 few moments to refresh the horses. I expect 
 to reach Los Angeles by midnight." 
 
82 JUAN PICO 
 
 "That you will, Senora; the road is good 
 all the way except for a mile or two near San 
 Fernando. But won't you have a glass of 
 wine ? It would refresh you." 
 
 Senora Gintaris consented, " Yes, bring me 
 a glass of the best port you have." 
 
 "When Mrs. Lee returned with the wine, 
 Senora Gintaris slowly inquired : 
 
 "Does your husband's health continue to 
 improve, Mrs. Lee ? " 
 
 "Yes, thank you, Senora. He is not the 
 same man since we moved here from Illinois." 
 
 " I am glad of that. It is hard to live with 
 out health." 
 
 "Yes, we have much to be thankful for. 
 But California is not home to us." 
 
 " You do not like it here ? " 
 
 " Well, we like the climate, but what's that 
 when you've left all your folks behind ? " 
 
 "True, life holds little without friends. 
 Yet you have your children." 
 
 " That's the worst part of being here ; we've 
 had to take them from school, to say nothing 
 of almost burying them alive in this place." 
 
 " Still, I should imagine it ought not to be so 
 
JUAN PICO 63 
 
 very lonely here. You see many travelers, do 
 you not ? " 
 
 " Only of a Sunday ; then people drive out 
 from Los Angeles. But few people stop here 
 during the week. We're not located right; 
 we're too near for some, and then again for 
 others, too far away. I often wish we were 
 back in Illinois. But, I suppose, health must 
 be thought of first." 
 
 "Yes, health must be considered before 
 everything. But you do well here, do you 
 not?" 
 
 "Why, Senora, there is no money in this 
 place. I tell you honestly we give away more 
 meals than we sell. You wouldn't believe it, 
 if I was to tell you the number of people that 
 go along this road, begging, tramping all the 
 way to well, heaven knows where, and I can't 
 refuse a hungry man something to eat. I 
 wasn't raised that way." 
 
 "Yes, there are a great many poor, dis 
 tressed people in California." 
 
 " But that isn't the worst of it," continued 
 Mrs. Lee. " People come here sometimes and 
 order meals, and then deliberately walk out, 
 
84 JUAN PICO 
 
 and refuse to pay for them, saying they haven't 
 a cent in the world. What can we do ? noth 
 ing, Senora, nothing." 
 
 " I hope that doesn't happen often ? " 
 " One happened along this very day. He 
 was an old man, and a bad one, I can tell you ; 
 he ordered a bottle of wine, and after drink 
 ing it, said it wasn't good and refused to pay 
 for it." 
 
 " Did you say he was an old man ? " 
 " Old ? well, I should say he was old ! And 
 besides being a rogue, I think he was half 
 crazy, for he had a lot of weeds braided in his 
 long white beard." 
 
 " How singular ; " the golden rosary glided 
 between Senora Gintaris' clasping and unclasp 
 ing fingers, "I wonder where the old man 
 could have been going with no one to care for 
 him." She raised her brows very slightly and 
 looked at Mrs. Lee. 
 
 "Oh, to Los Angeles or to some of the 
 ranches near here, I guess. But he wasn't 
 alone, the old scamp. I watched him as he 
 went away, and what do you think? down 
 the road there was a young girl waiting for 
 
JUAN PICO 85 
 
 him. They were too far away for me to see 
 what she looked like, but she didn't act as if 
 she was his daughter. It's wonderful how 
 sometimes an old man will fascinate a young 
 girl, so she'll up and marry him, isn't it ? If 
 they only knew what they were doing." 
 
 Senora Gintaris arose: "I must be going. 
 Good-night, Mrs. Lee." 
 
 "Good-night, Senora. I wish you a safe 
 journey." 
 
 Bowing her head slightly, the Senora passed 
 down the steps and crossed the yard to the 
 phaeton. Pedro had come out of the bar 
 room and was already in his seat. The men 
 were watering the horses who thrust their 
 mouths deep into the pails. Entering the car 
 riage, the Senora motioned Pedro to proceed, 
 and dashing through the gateway, they soon 
 left the little road-house far behind them. 
 
 As the hours went by mile was added to 
 mile, the moon climbed so high that her light 
 in the heavens was like the light of the sun 
 under a fleecy cloud. Senora Gintaris looked 
 up at the silent stars that shone with a won 
 derful brilliancy. A cool breeze was blowing 
 
86 JUAN PICO 
 
 over the country side, now uneven and rocky. 
 Growing among the lead-colored rocks, were 
 a few stunted pifion trees struggling for exist 
 ence. Here and there along the road sacred 
 crucifixes stood out against the sky their 
 naked arms stretching from east to west, re 
 minding every one who passed of the world's 
 greatest tragedy. 
 
 It was past eleven o'clock. As they went 
 through the little town of San Fernando, not 
 a light was to be seen. A death-like stillness 
 reigned over all. Every one was asleep, and 
 the phaeton dashed on with a loud noise. The 
 appearance of the country began to change. 
 They neared the foot-hills of the Sierra Nevada 
 range, whose ponderous sides were wrapped in 
 a garment of odorless yellow poppies. 
 
 The Seiiora leaned forward, " Drive faster, 
 Pedro." 
 
 u Seiiora, the horses can go no faster, they 
 are almost dead now ; in half an hour we will 
 be in the city." 
 
 The Senora sighed deeply, "Very weU, 
 Pedro." 
 
 Once over the mesa, lights flickered before 
 
JUAN PICO 87 
 
 them, in a curious little network of stars, a 
 little patch of heaven thrown down to earth, 
 their rows clearly defining the long narrow 
 streets. No further conversation passed be 
 tween Senora Gintaris and Pedro until they 
 were fairly in the city ; then she spoke : 
 
 " Drive to the convent of The Most Holy 
 Name." 
 
 In a few moments they passed through the 
 park and along Olive street. Before them, 
 like a single black silhouette of gables and 
 spires stood the gloomy convent. As they 
 drew up before the door, the bell in the cathe 
 dral, rang out the hour, with the solemn tone 
 that bells give on the calm still air of mid 
 night. 
 
SIX 
 
 " All things are hushed as Nature's self lay dead ; 
 The mountains seem to nod their drowsy head ; 
 The little birds in dreams their songs repeat, 
 And sleeping flowers beneath the night-dew sweat; 
 Even lust and envy sleep ; yet love denies 
 Rest to my soul, and slumber to my eyes." 
 
 DRYDEN. 
 
 A STEONG wind blew from the ocean and 
 swept up through the valley. It lifted the 
 thick blanket of dust from the road and swung 
 it in cylinder-like clouds high in the air. 
 
 Juan Pico had walked in from Alhambra to 
 Los Angeles. His clothes were completely 
 covered with dust, and his eyes smarted with 
 the sting of alkali. Tired with his long walk 
 and weary of his own thoughts, he immedi 
 ately went to the priest's house. To his dis 
 appointment he learned that Father Jerome 
 was absent at Santa Monica, and expected to 
 be gone two or three days. Juan went away ; 
 not far from the Los Angeles Mission, he came 
 to an eating house. Entering, he dropped 
 
 88 
 
JUAN PICO 89 
 
 heavily into a chair near the door. After 
 ordering a simple meal he sat and meditated : 
 
 " Should he wait for Father Jerome to re 
 turn, or ask the help he wanted from the 
 assistant, a priest whom he did not know ? 
 No, he could not make up his mind to tell his 
 story to a stranger ; he would wait." 
 
 When he had finished eating he felt re 
 freshed. Sauntering out to the public square, 
 he sat down on a bench and began to smoke. 
 While he rested, afternoon gave way to evening. 
 Stars came out one by one, and from behind a 
 mighty peak the moon rose softly. The whole 
 shining expanse of the heavens was covered 
 with a network of intricate designs, ever in 
 terlacing and changing in form. Down near 
 the horizon, the clouds had assumed the dull 
 shades of tin. Bats glided through the air 
 upon mysterious flights, like the creations of a 
 nightmare. Lights appeared in the windows 
 of the shops and along the thoroughfares. 
 People went leisurely up and down the street. 
 
 It was the old and poor quarter of the town, 
 and the majority of those who passed were 
 wretchedly clad, Mixed with the growd ? 
 
90 JUAN PICO 
 
 noticed a great number of deformed and crip 
 pled people ; these were now hobbling to one 
 side of the walk, now they were being shoved 
 to the other. A young girl came along leading 
 a blind man, evidently her father ; they had not 
 gone far, before a drunken man reeled against 
 them almost throwing the old man into the 
 street. Some one sprang forward to save him, 
 and a little knot of curious half-grown boys 
 idly gathered around them. Beggars, one 
 after the other, accosted the better dressed 
 citizens or droned their petitions from conspic 
 uous places. A middle-aged man stood on the 
 opposite corner playing an accordion, while a 
 child near him, allowed a rattlesnake to coil 
 about her neck and shoulders to the great de 
 light of a small crowd collected in front of 
 her, at a safe distance. These charitable peo 
 ple occasionally threw her a penny, and asked 
 if the serpent's fangs had been extracted. 
 Gaily painted girls drifted by smoking small 
 cigarettes. Chinese insinuated themselves 
 through the crowd, selling lottery tickets or 
 telling sallow-faced youths where the safest 
 opium joints could be found, Kanchmen, with 
 
JUAN PICO 81 
 
 gaily decorated sombreros and leather belts, 
 anxious to see the city and get drunk, jostled 
 along, their jollity effervescing in coarse songs, 
 in cursing or in boisterous shouts of laughter. 
 
 Before Juan's eyes passed the hideous pan 
 orama of the street, and it sickened him. He 
 had never cared for the city ; now, he despised 
 it. Born and reared among the ranches, 
 nature alone delighted his soul. To him, no 
 music could equal the songs of the birds, or 
 the murmuring of the stream. He loved to 
 sleep so near the brook that if he chanced to 
 waken during the night he could hear over the 
 pebbles and among the grasses, its clear sweet 
 ripples. The air of the city choked him ; he 
 felt he could scarcely breathe. Looking at the 
 crowd he felt that with the setting of the sun, 
 all forms of goodness and virtue had disap 
 peared. From out the shadows, here and 
 there, wretched creatures dragged themselves 
 from their hiding-places and began to walk 
 the night ; each revolting form of life busy 
 plying its trade. 
 
 Juan could faintly hear the music from a 
 neighboring theatre ; he felt rested now, and 
 
92 JUAN PICO 
 
 the sound attracted him. Eising, he started 
 to walk down the street. He had scarcely 
 gone a block when he felt a touch on his arm. 
 Glancing down, he saw an old beggar-woman 
 close beside him. Hastily pulling up her 
 sleeve she exposed to his view a hideous, 
 bleeding sore, the sides of which seemed to 
 gasp and discharge blood like the mouth of a 
 fish that is taken by a hook from the water. 
 He started to pass her by, but she clung to 
 him, saying : 
 
 " For twenty years, Senor, for twenty 
 years ! " 
 
 Shoving a coin into her hand he watched 
 her hurry to the nearest saloon. Soon he 
 came to the theatre. Through the open door 
 he discovered it was a concert-hall and saloon 
 combined. At small tables men were seated, 
 drinking and smoking. On a narrow stage 
 erected at the end of the room, a woman 
 dressed like a sailor was attempting to dance 
 the " Fisher's Hornpipe." 
 
 Extending around the room was a narrow 
 gallery, over the railing of which leaned 
 several half -drunken men; occasionally they 
 
JUAN PICO 93 
 
 threw money to the sailor girl. Just as Juan 
 looked in, a shower of gold had fallen at the 
 dancer's feet and she was throwing kisses at 
 her admirers. This met with the approval of 
 the entire audience, who loudly applauded. A 
 foul odor accompanied by thick clouds of 
 smoke issued from the door. Juan passed on 
 to the end of the street. At this point three 
 small streets meet, and form a triangle. For 
 a moment Juan paused ; just then, pitiful cries 
 rent the air, and from a dark alley there came 
 a policeman hauling a drunken woman by the 
 arm. She was in agony. Juan recognized 
 her as the woman with the gaping sore. 
 Evidently delighted with the moment's di 
 version, a small crowd had collected and was 
 following her. Juan hastened across the 
 street, and turning the corner he went down 
 Saint Anne Street. All these sights annoyed, 
 disgusted him. He walked on ; at length he 
 became so absorbed in thought that he was 
 oblivious to all around him. No longer did 
 he hear the noises and the trample of the 
 streets, no longer did he see the glances sent 
 him from bright eyes, or note the beautiful 
 
94 JUAN PICO 
 
 white teeth flashing between lips that smiled 
 at him. His big, broad shoulders forced their 
 way into the hearts of women, and as he 
 passed, many stopped and gazed after him, 
 their superb forms quivering. He hurried on, 
 inspiring unknowingly, in those who might 
 have been better than they were, a feeling of 
 disappointment or a sense of shame. 
 
 Many women had cared for Juan, but of 
 this kind, none had fascinated him. Like a 
 plant by the wayside he had grown in bad 
 soil, but in spite of this and of the polluting 
 rains of wine, he had matured and blossomed 
 with more perfection than could have been 
 expected. 
 
 Crossing the little valley, Juan left the city 
 behind, and came toward the solemn mountains 
 standing in the night like shadow-giants dumb 
 and black. Walking beside the tall grasses, 
 he allowed their spicy leaves to run through 
 his fingers, as in a boat one allows the water 
 to flow through the hand. Hope, fear, and 
 despondency were at war within him, and he 
 felt he would be glad to die. The cold per 
 spiration stood in crystal beads upon his brow ; 
 
JUAN PICO 95 
 
 laboredly he breathed the air which was heavy 
 with the perfume of flowers. 
 
 Ever ringing in his ears, he could hear the 
 accusing voice of Seiiora Gintaris : 
 
 "You ask my permission to marry Anita, 
 you, a gambler, a man who has left a trail of 
 gold in nearly every gambling place from here 
 to Los Angeles ? No, you shall never marry 
 her. I would rather see her dead first. What 
 right has a man like you to think of such a 
 thing? Anita knows no evil, and you, you 
 know nothing else." 
 
 It was true, he had done wrong, and per 
 haps he had no right ever to have the love of 
 such a girl as Anita. He hardly dared think 
 of the life he had led, of the sins he had com 
 mitted, for in his excited state remorse magni 
 fied these to a terrible immensity. His soul 
 was on the rack of a guilty conscience, and the 
 vault of heaven seemed not further away than 
 the hope of realizing his dream of love. 
 
 Coming to a black ravine, he entered it; 
 somewhere in its depths a torrent roared ; 
 but to his overwrought brain the place might 
 have been Hades or Eden: for all outside 
 
96 JUAN PICO 
 
 himself, in comparison, was steeped in tran 
 quillity. 
 
 At first he followed a slight path, but by 
 and by, even that disappeared and he made 
 his way over stones and through prickly under 
 brush, which he cast roughly aside ; it bruised 
 and tore his hands. At length he caught his 
 foot in the root of a tree, and fell headlong, 
 face downward. For a long time he lay 
 motionless, the wild impetuous blood surging 
 through his arteries. Gradually a full realiza 
 tion of where he was came back to him. In 
 the distance he heard the cry of a mountain 
 lion ; above him, clinging to the slopes, were 
 blue gums, pinons and shaggy oaks, and 
 through their branches the breeze passed with 
 a lingering sigh. 
 
 As one drowning, in an instant reviews his 
 whole life, so before Juan there came vividly, 
 pictures of all his past. He thought question- 
 ingly of unfathomable things: why was it 
 that he had never been permitted to have 
 known a mother's love? that he had never 
 had any one to love and care for him but the 
 priests, and that so long ago ? Why had he 
 
JUAN PICO 97 
 
 been born with a passion for gambling? It 
 must be that it had been born in him since he 
 had liked to play at cards ever since he could 
 remember. Why had he not been made like 
 Father Ambrose ? it was not hard for him to 
 be good. Then he thought of men he had 
 met in the wine shops, and how, when drunk, 
 their voices sounded like the groans of wild 
 beasts, and their hands looked like claws. 
 Such men as these had been his companions ! 
 He threw his head from side to side. 
 
 Then, in thought, he went back to the long 
 days he had spent on the hillsides, with his 
 sheep and his dog for companions. They 
 were so patient, so anxious to understand 
 what he wanted them to do, and so ready to 
 forgive any neglect or inattention. As a boy 
 he had spent most of his time with the ani 
 mals on the ranch, tenderly caring for them 
 or teaching them tricks. The ponies would 
 follow him around like dogs, patiently waiting 
 for the reward of sugar, sure to be given if 
 they succeeded in doing what Juan wanted 
 them to. Juan's pulses were beating more 
 regularly. Now, he recalled how years be- 
 
98 JUAN PICO 
 
 fore he had one day ridden over to Otero 
 ranch on his pet pony which he intended giv 
 ing to Anita ; and how, when Senora Gintaris 
 and Anita came into the court, he had said : 
 " Anita, here is a little pony for you." 
 Anita's eyes began to dance with delight, 
 but when she saw the level glance shot from 
 the Senora's eyes, she said sadly : 
 
 " Thank you, Juan, but I cannot have it." 
 And the Senora had added decisively : 
 " The child is quite right, she is too young 
 to ride. I do not wish her to have a pony. 
 "We thank you, but you must take it away." 
 
 And he had ridden sadly back again, for 
 the Senora's voice then, as now, carried with 
 it the ring of authority. 
 
 As a boy he thought the reason he liked to 
 visit Otero ranch above every place in the 
 valley, was because the sweetest and juiciest 
 oranges grew there. And Sebastian, in his 
 boyish eyes, was a wonderful man. He knew 
 all about everything and he was so kind, al 
 ways willing to show him the bees or to take 
 him wherever he was going. 
 But now he realized the truth ; it was not 
 
JUAN PICO 99 
 
 the oranges, nor the bees, nor Sebastian, that 
 had made Otero ranch so attractive to him, it 
 was Anita, it was because Anita had been 
 there, because he had loved her from the very 
 first. Juan moved ; throwing his arms out at 
 full length, one hand touched a flower ; it was 
 on the low branch of a wild pomegranate. 
 Again he saw Anita in her old faded blue 
 dress turned slightly down at the neck, and 
 on her breast the wild pomegranate flowers, 
 she so often wore. He always thought of 
 wild flowers when he thought of Anita; to 
 him, she was like the flowers, was one of 
 them. He clenched his hands : 
 
 " It is no use to think any more of her, my 
 way of life has put it out of my power ever to 
 be anything to her. What shall I do ? where 
 shall I go?" 
 
 In the dark he cried : 
 
 "Anita! Anita!" 
 
 But there came no answer. 
 
 " Alas ! Anita cannot reply, she would 
 not be allowed to. The Senora will never 
 permit her to see me again, if she can help 
 it" 
 
100 JUAN PICO 
 
 He stared up into the sky as if in earnest 
 supplication. God's holy voice answered him 
 through the words of Father Ambrose : 
 
 "Come into the church, Juan, become a 
 novitiate. Perhaps, after awhile you will be 
 led to take the vows and to devote your life 
 to doing good." 
 
 If Father Ambrose understood fully what a 
 miserable sinner he had been, would he have 
 made such a suggestion ? Yes, for he had re 
 pented, he had promised and he meant to do 
 better. After confession Father Ambrose had 
 granted him absolution and said, too, that the 
 Holy Church forgave him. Why should he 
 not go back to San Gabriel Arcangel and be 
 come indeed a son of the Mission? If he 
 could help to make any one happy, that was 
 all there was left in life for him to do. Eis- 
 ing to his knees and looking into the moonlit 
 heaven, he prayed God to help and to guide 
 him. His fervent prayers soothed his dis 
 quieted soul ; then he arose to his feet, realiz 
 ing for the first, that he was cold and cramped 
 and tired. Slowly and with effort, he found 
 his way back to the little path, growing with 
 
JUAN PICO 101 
 
 every step more distinct ; now, he crossed the 
 valley. 
 
 Over the tips of the receding mountains 
 could be seen the faint sign of promise that 
 the day was near. When he entered Los 
 Angeles, he found the city in the close grasp 
 of sleep ; the streets were deserted save for a 
 few belated travelers like himself. Turning 
 into a side street and walking down half a 
 block he stopped in front of a small store, 
 over the door of which read : 
 
 " Basil, Basketmaker." 
 
 Juan knew Basil well, for had he not often 
 come to the ranch to buy willows ? Knocking 
 loudly several times, he waited. After a long 
 while, through the window could be seen the 
 glow of a flickering oil lamp, and a voice from 
 within called : 
 
 " Who's there ? what's wanted ? " 
 
 "It is I, Juan Pico." 
 
 "What did you say?" 
 
 " Juan Pico, from San Gabriel, Juan Pico. 
 Can you give me a place to sleep ? " 
 
 " Aye, to be sure, to be sure I can." The 
 door was unbolted and Juan entered. After 
 
102 JUAN PICO 
 
 greetings had been exchanged, Basil led Juan 
 to a small room shoved in under the slanting 
 roof. Here, Juan threw himself on a couch 
 and was soon asleep. 
 
SEVEN 
 
 " We heard the grind of traffic in the street, 
 The clamorous calls, the beat of passing feet, 
 The wail of bells that in the twilight meet." 
 
 PHILIP BOURKE MARSTON. 
 
 IN the gray light of early morning Anita 
 called : 
 
 " Juan, aren't these lovely ? " 
 
 She was dreaming of the seashore where 
 Juan and she were gathering shells. 
 
 Awakening for a moment, the young girl 
 looked startled, then the happy look faded 
 away. Yes, she remembered it all. How 
 dreadful it was, and Sebastian she shuddered. 
 Her eyes fell upon an ancient prie-dieu stand 
 ing beneath the rude shelf, above which hung 
 the picture of the Christ and on which the 
 burned-out candle stood. Kising from the 
 bed, she made the sign of the cross and knelt 
 with hands folded on her bosom. 
 
 Yesterday's salty tears had dried upon her 
 cheeks ; she looked careworn ; but the ref resh- 
 103 
 
104 JUAN PICO 
 
 ment of sleep, the repetition of her customary 
 prayers reinforced the hopefulness of youth ; 
 and when she heard the voice of the old 
 woman calling her to the morning meal, she 
 opened the door of the chamber with only a 
 slight feeling of that dread which had so over 
 come her the night before. 
 
 From an open doorway further down the 
 hall, the old woman beckoned to her, saying : 
 
 " You will need a cup of coffee and some 
 thing to eat before you start." 
 
 To Anita the old woman also presented a 
 less fearful appearance than she had by candle 
 light, and she walked with almost her usual 
 air of gentle confidence along the passage-way. 
 When she entered the room, Sebastian cried 
 cheerfully : 
 
 " Come, if we reach Los Angeles in good 
 time to-day, we must get an early start." 
 
 Without replying, she sat down at a little 
 distance from Sebastian ; she ate hastily of the 
 meal before her, and rose as soon as she had 
 finished. But one thought possessed her, to 
 get away to Los Angeles. 
 
 " Sebastian, I am ready." 
 
JUAN PICO 105 
 
 " Then start on, Anita, and I will soon over 
 take you." 
 
 The old couple regarded her stealthily, and 
 when the old woman looked at Sebastian in a 
 knowing way and as if about to speak, he mo 
 tioned her to keep silent. 
 
 Stepping outside, Anita felt the cool breeze 
 that reluctantly stealing through the valley 
 stirred the slender branches of the trees. Be 
 low the horizon the golden sun was rolling up 
 ward upon its never-ending journey, begun so 
 many years ago. The very pale light was 
 steadily increasing. It rushed in like little 
 rivulets and streams, by slight shocks ; ever 
 lasting things were illuminated by a transpar 
 ency as of white-flamed lamps, that flickered 
 from behind the shapeless mass of slowly dis 
 solving vapors. They lifted carefully and 
 with manifold precautions, as if fearing to dis 
 turb the melancholy of the moorland. But 
 rosy tints were creeping into the low-lying 
 clouds. They deepened into amethyst, into 
 violet, and finally into red, until as though 
 bursting with blood, they overflowed into the 
 deep canons along the edge of the mesa, 
 
106 JUAN PICO 
 
 Sebastian caught up with Anita, and as they 
 walked along, the deep emerald of the mead 
 ows they had passed through the day before 
 gave way to quiet browns and grays. The 
 country was parched, and in places the sun 
 had caused the earth to crack. Kain had not 
 fallen for months, everything was covered 
 with dust. Not a drop of dew clung to the 
 plants along the roadside, and Anita felt sorry 
 for the thirsting, dust-laden flowers. 
 
 Much refreshed, Sebastian walked ahead, 
 and in a merry voice continually reminded 
 Anita of the end of their journey, Los Angeles. 
 At last, he said : 
 
 " In a little while, now, Anita, we shall be 
 there." 
 
 Anita stood still, speaking for the first 
 time: 
 
 " Sebastian, what makes you call me, Anita ? 
 What made you call me, your daughter ? " 
 
 " Because, my child, the people we meet will 
 ask us all kinds of questions." 
 
 " But I am not your daughter, and you shall 
 not say so." 
 
 " Suppose somebody asks me who you are ? " 
 
JUAN PICO 107 
 
 " You needn't say anything. And I won't 
 have you call me, Anita." 
 
 " Oh, very well, do fathers call their daugh 
 ters, Seiiorita ? Besides, if people find out you 
 are not my daughter they may not let us go to 
 Los Angeles together." 
 
 " Then I will go back to the Senora," said 
 Anita, with tears in her eyes. 
 
 " Do you know the way ? " asked Sebastian, 
 snappishly. 
 
 "I can ask." 
 
 "Much good that would do you. Do you 
 know what they do to girls who run away from 
 home ? They shut them up in convents. If 
 you don't pay attention to what I tell you, you 
 will never see Juan or Los Angeles, either." 
 
 Anita began to cry. 
 
 " Now, Anita, you are very foolish ; am I not 
 taking you to Los Angeles? don't you want 
 to go ? " 
 
 " Yes," she whispered. 
 
 " Well, if you do, you must let me pretend 
 you are my daughter. Until we find Juan, I 
 will take care of you. JSTow, stop crying." 
 
 They began to walk along again, Anita feel- 
 
108 JUAN PICO 
 
 ing that the dust of the road would choke her, 
 and longing inexpressibly to reach the end of 
 the journey. On and on they went ; to Anita, 
 it seemed as if they would never stop walking ; 
 at last she paused, and tried to brush the abom 
 inably annoying dust from her gown and shoes, 
 exclaiming : 
 
 " Oh, dear ! Aren't we almost there ? " 
 
 Sebastian replied cheerily : 
 
 " Yes, we are almost there," and he waited 
 for her to overtake him, saying in a half -sooth 
 ing voice : 
 
 " When I was a boy I lived in these parts. 
 Anita, did you ever hear of General Fre 
 mont?" 
 
 " Of course I have." Anita was cross and 
 tired. Sebastian continued : 
 
 " I remember the day the noble general and 
 his regiment marched along this road going 
 to 'Frisco. It was a grand sight. On a fine 
 white horse, the general rode in advance ; the 
 gold epaulets on his broad shoulders glistened 
 brightly in the sun. Every one for miles 
 around came out to see him, even the sick ; 
 people unable to walk were carried and laid 
 
JUAN PICO 109 
 
 by the roadside. "When the general passed, 
 the people waved their hands and shouted 
 words of praise. Men gathered pine tree 
 branches and strewed them before him. They 
 did that, you know, Anita, because the pine 
 means long life, and that day everybody wished 
 him many years of happiness. We followed 
 him as far as Rubio ; then came back, some of 
 us, still carrying the trodden branches. It was 
 a time I shall never forget." 
 
 Anita sighed, then she said : 
 
 " Yes, the Seiiora has told me of him ; he 
 was a great and good man." Suddenly she 
 stopped, her face grew pale, she threw out her 
 hands to keep from falling. 
 
 " Anita ! " exclaimed Sebastian, steadying 
 his hand on his cane, " lean on me, or you will 
 fall." She caught hold of his rough sleeve for 
 support. 
 
 "O, Anita, look, look, what a splendid 
 sight ! " 
 
 She roused with an effort ; shading her eyes 
 with her hand, she gazed in front of her, and 
 saw a magnificent flock of sheep filling the 
 road. There were at least ten thousand, their 
 
110 JUAN PICO 
 
 little hoofs tapping confusedly and their 
 backs undulating like the waves of a peace 
 ful sea. Two dogs with brown spots above 
 the eyes, giving them a half-comic, half- 
 stupid expression, ran beside the sheep, and 
 two shepherds brought up the rear. Sebas 
 tian's yellow, wrinkled fingers, that felt like 
 the bloodless muscle of the tortoise, grasped 
 Anita's hand as it lay upon his sleeve, and he 
 exclaimed : 
 
 " Those are fine sheep ! I would be proud 
 to own that flock." 
 
 Anita pulled her hand away, and with Se 
 bastian close at her side, stepped to the edge 
 of the road until the sheep should pass. Se 
 bastian stood in front of Anita, and the dust 
 also helped to keep the shepherds from getting 
 a good look at her. 
 
 Scrutinizing them the old man said : " Those 
 sheep have just been sheared. Holla ! " he 
 called to the shepherds, " whose sheep are you 
 driving ? " 
 
 " Eh, Sebastian ? These sheep now belong 
 to Gonzalez Eomero ; he won them gambling 
 at San Gabriel." 
 
JUAN PICO 111 
 
 " Ah, I know, I know ; a famous game, 
 wasn't it ? A big stake to play for." 
 
 The sheep were passing at a slow trot, the 
 dust puffed up thickly about them, and hung 
 above them in thinning clouds. 
 
 " Where are you driving them ? " 
 
 " Over to pasture in the San Fernando val 
 ley." 
 
 " Will Gonzalez turn ranchman ? " 
 
 Now the shepherds and the last of the sheep 
 were passing, and Anita walking swiftly on 
 ward, missed part of the reply. 
 
 "He? not he! These sheep are going to 
 be slaughtered. As soon as Pico turned 'em 
 over to Gonzalez, he sold 'em to the butchers 
 in Los Angeles." 
 
 " It's a pity to kill them ; they're the finest 
 sheep in the valley." 
 
 "What would you have him do ? He's got 
 the money for 'em, that's all he wants." 
 
 The shepherds had not ceased to stare curi 
 ously over their shoulders at Anita who con 
 tinued to walk along the road. Finally one 
 of the men called to Sebastian : 
 
 " And where are you going ? " 
 
112 JUAN PICO 
 
 " To Los Angeles ; I'm taking my daughter 
 there." 
 
 The shepherd who had not spoken, now 
 hollaed back : 
 
 " Go 'long, you ain't married. You've been 
 luckier nor Gonzalez. How'd you get your 
 daughter, gamblin' ? " 
 
 Both men laughed and waved their staffs 
 mockingly at Sebastian who made no reply, 
 but with a vexed look on his wrinkled face, 
 hastened after Anita. When he caught up 
 with her he was quite out of breath, and it 
 was some minutes before he was able to artic 
 ulate in a halting, excited voice : 
 
 " We shall have a fine view when we get to 
 the top of the hill." 
 
 A few steps further brought them to the 
 summit of the hill. Now far above the hori 
 zon, the sun cast its glorious glow over the 
 bewildering landscape. Every mountain peak 
 was bathed in brilliancy and the valley was 
 inundated by floods of sunshine. Beyond the 
 valley's edge on the horizon, was a flashing 
 bar of silver. 
 
 " Oh ! What what is that ? " 
 
JUAN PICO 113 
 
 " That is the great Pacific ocean." 
 
 Anita held her breath ; she did not move ; 
 she was almost happy again. Softly she be 
 gan to inhale the tranquil air which was im 
 pregnated with the life that comes from the 
 sea. Sebastian watched her with delight. 
 
 " O Sebastian ! " she exclaimed. " It is far 
 more beautiful than I expected." 
 
 "And see," he replied, pointing into the 
 valley, " there is Los Angeles." 
 
 Her lovely eyes grew larger ; they seemed 
 illumined by a sacred fire that blazed within 
 her soul. Her face was all rosy even to the 
 uncertain edge of her bright brown hair. 
 
 Far away the city calmly nestled in its 
 cradle of the hills. Anita stood motionless; 
 at last, her eyes beheld the city and the sea. 
 
 Softly as if to herself she repeated : 
 
 " It is wonderful, wonderful ! " 
 
 Coming close beside her, Sebastian ejacu 
 lated with almost childish delight : 
 
 "I told you I would bring you to Los 
 Angeles. You would never have seen it if it 
 had not been for me." 
 
 "Yes," said the girl, without taking her 
 
114 JUAN PICO 
 
 eyes from the longed-for scene, "I should 
 never have seen it but for you." 
 
 "Never, Anita, never," he repeated in a 
 loud voice. 
 
 After a moment's pause, she cried : 
 
 " Come, Sebastian, let us hurry to Juan." 
 And almost running, she started on in ad 
 vance. Sebastian called her back from the 
 main road and led her into a circuitous cattle 
 trail that was little frequented by travelers; 
 it straggled along through several of the out 
 lying ranches and crossed the dried up Los 
 Angeles river near the stockyards. As they 
 trudged along, Sebastian was one moment 
 feverishly exhilarated, and at the next, de 
 spondent. The country through which they 
 were walking was full of memories that made 
 him realize he was no longer young. 
 
 At one point on the trail, they came upon a 
 weather-beaten crucifix, before which he fol 
 lowed Anita's example and crossed himself. 
 Though, according to his ideas, death ended 
 all and there was no future life, yet he had a 
 certain unaccountable horror of ghosts, and 
 held a great number of superstitious beliefs; 
 
JUAN PICO 115 
 
 the fleeting fears which these caused him were 
 assuaged by his confidence in the saints, and 
 hence he had a satyr-like veneration for 
 churches and shrines. 
 
 At last they were in Los Angeles. Anita 
 drew a long breath. 
 
 " Let us rest awhile on this bench," said Se 
 bastian, as they entered the plaza. Directly 
 opposite was the Los Angeles Mission. Ad 
 joining it, was the priest's house with its long, 
 comfortable veranda, in front of which many 
 pretty flowers bloomed. An old stone walk 
 led up to the door, and between the stones 
 grew little tufts of grass, giving to the place 
 an air of antiquity. 
 
 It was the annual day of reconciliation and 
 of prayer for incurables, and the whole city 
 seemed surfeited with misery. Passing into 
 the church was a long procession of sick people, 
 afflicted with every hideous disease of which 
 the human body is susceptible. There were 
 old women with slowly eating ulcers ; young 
 girls with Saint Yitus' dance; middle-aged 
 men coughing and expectorating in the most 
 dangerous stages of consumption; children, 
 
116 JUAN PICO 
 
 who had been on the rack of pain ever since 
 they were born ; idiots ; the insane ; the blind ; 
 the lame ; throughout the city, all these were 
 making as best they could, their suffering pil 
 grimage, going from church to church and 
 from shrine to shrine. 
 
 The sight of these people amazed Anita, but 
 there was so much else to attract her atten 
 tion that she did not realize fully the misery 
 before her. Everything interested her. As 
 she looked about, she hardly knew whether it 
 was a dream or a reality. She seldom spoke, 
 for Sebastian had told her not to ask ques 
 tions, when any one was near, as they would 
 laugh at her. But when she saw two nuns 
 amidst the crowd that was surging into the 
 Mission Church, she noticed with delight their 
 dull-blue dresses, the great wing-like points of 
 white extending outside their bonnets, their 
 mild white faces, and she could not help ex 
 claiming : 
 
 " How beautiful the good nuns look." 
 
 And Sebastian puffed at his cigarette and 
 replied, cynically : 
 
 "Yes, they do look beautiful." 
 
JUAN PICO 117 
 
 In the centre of the plaza there was a 
 splashing fountain filled with gold fish. Anita 
 fed them a bit of bread from her lunch. At 
 the same time, she allowed nothing else in the 
 plaza to escape her attention ; she noticed oc 
 casional Chinamen dressed in their gaudy Ori 
 ental clothes ; ladies driving by in their car 
 riages holding over their heads parasols of 
 every imaginable color. 
 
 When the noon-hour approached, working- 
 men came into the plaza to eat their dinners, 
 and the bustle and movement in the streets 
 increased. The place became crowded; Se 
 bastian was rested and wished to seek a 
 more secluded spot; he rose stiffly from the 
 bench, saying in a loud voice so that a man 
 who had been looking them over, from across 
 the way, should hear. 
 
 " Come, daughter, come, we must be going." 
 
 Just as they passed out of the square, the 
 bells of Saint Paul's began to chime, " I heard 
 the voice of Jesus say," and Anita stopped in 
 a self-forgetful rapture, lost as in the holy en 
 chantment of a sad dream. 
 
 When the last note died away she still re- 
 
118 JUAN PICO 
 
 mained motionless, gazing upward with tears 
 upon her cheeks. 
 
 Sebastian looked at her jealously; his evil 
 eyes seemed to be searching for her soul. Se 
 curing her hand he caressed it, but not for a 
 moment did he remove his eyes from her face ; 
 passion and revenge were whirling him in or 
 bits of desire. How beautiful she was ; her 
 eyes like turquoises ; her chestnut locks flash 
 ing in the sun like golden threads. As the 
 different emotions seized her the color was 
 coming and vanishing in her cheeks. "When 
 she should speak her voice would be low and 
 sweet. Her lips are so full and red. The 
 miserable monster could scarcely resist taking 
 her in his arms. 
 
 Anita came to herself and when her eyes 
 met Sebastian's, he dropped her hand, as if 
 their clear light dazzled him. He moved 
 away and walked on without speaking. 
 
 They went here and there about the city, 
 and along in the afternoon, they dined at a 
 small restaurant. Later, they went toward 
 the part of the city where they could get a 
 view of the sea, and Anita looked at the mag- 
 
JUAN PICO 119 
 
 nificent sun, setting far out in the ocean, and 
 she watched contentedly the shadows of the 
 ships elongating upon the glittering expanse 
 of water. 
 
 When purple shadows gathered, and the 
 silvery veiling moonlight noiselessly dropped 
 from heaven, they went into the vast cathe 
 dral, filled with the odor of incense. Here, in 
 the semi-darkness, the sightless eyes of saints 
 glared down upon them. 
 
 Like a swallow's nest the organ hung from 
 the wall of the cathedral; the organist was 
 practicing a part of the mass and the church 
 was overflowing with the rolling opulence of 
 sound. 
 
 Sebastian, who did not believe in God, 
 threw himself upon his knees. Anita, trans 
 ported, began to sing ; her glorious voice rising 
 and falling with the swelling sea of harmony. 
 
 Suddenly the organist stopped, as if listen 
 ing. At once, Sebastian rose, took Anita by 
 the hand and led her hastily from the cathe 
 dral. Again, Anita was drifting with the 
 stream of strange people. 
 
EIGHT 
 
 "Whither; O, splendid ship, thy white sails crowding, 
 
 Leaning across the bosom of the urgent West, 
 That fearest nor sea rising, nor sky clouding, 
 Whither away, fair rover, and what thy quest ? " 
 
 ROBERT BRIDGES. 
 
 As they were on their way from the cathe 
 dral to a rude obscure lodging house, Sebas 
 tian caught a distant glimpse of Juan Pico 
 looking in at a concert saloon, and he hurried 
 Anita almost faster than she could walk in an 
 opposite direction. To know that they were 
 liable to run across Juan at any moment, made 
 Sebastian very uneasy, and after leaving the 
 young girl asleep, he slunk guardedly around 
 Los Angeles making inquiries about the ves 
 sels sailing for San Diego. 
 
 Early next morning he engaged passage on 
 a vessel which was to sail southward on the 
 following day. And later in the morning, 
 with Anita, he started to spend the day at the 
 seashore. It was very warm, and Sebastian 
 realized that after the exertions of the day 
 ISO 
 
JUAN PICO 121 
 
 before, the long walk would be too much for 
 Anita's strength, so after going a short dis 
 tance, he made her sit down with him by the 
 roadside. While they rested, a ranchero came 
 along, driving in the direction they wished to 
 go. Sebastian asked if he would oblige them 
 with a lift, as his daughter was tired and not 
 strong. The ranchero consented, and the two 
 travelers climbed into the wagon. About the 
 middle of the forenoon they came in full view 
 of the beach. Anita was beside herself with 
 delight, exclaiming : 
 
 "Oh, let's not ride any further, let's get 
 out here. Please, stop, Senor." 
 
 The man stopped. " Gracias, Senor ; " Anita 
 jumped out and ran down in advance of Se 
 bastian to the glistening, silvery sands. She 
 was fairly carried away with pleasure as she 
 watched the waves roll themselves upon the 
 beach like the regular pulsations of a mighty 
 heart. "Wave followed wave until she was be 
 wildered. The white crests blossoming at 
 her feet made her think of white rose trees in 
 the restless rustling of the winds. Dancing 
 along the shore, she stopped now and then to 
 
122 JUAN PICO 
 
 pick up a shell, waving her hand and calling 
 gaily back to Sebastian. Lights and shadows 
 played around her. Catching her hair, the 
 wind blew it out far behind, then up over her 
 head, letting it fall again on her shoulders like 
 a shower of gold. She paused and listened to 
 the enormous billows as they dashed over the 
 rocks on to triumphant eternity, or sought it 
 calmly on the vast level shore. Creeping into 
 the rocky crevices she could hear the waters 
 laugh and sing; now, mourn and cry. The 
 never ending disturbance of the billowy surf, 
 compared to the brooding serenity above it, 
 fascinated her. In the distance she could see 
 the yellow Santa Monica mountains rising out 
 of the blue, transparent waters. Her eyes 
 followed the rugged line of cliffs far to the 
 northward. Santa Barbara island was a mere 
 speck on the horizon. Stretching to the south, 
 brilliant with its golden glister, the long beach 
 near Eedondo, curled inward. Beyond the 
 surf, as. far as her eye could reach, everything 
 was serene and placid. Upon the bosom of 
 the sea a great white winged ship was sailing 
 down to Mexico ; she watched it grow smaller 
 
JUAN PICO 123 
 
 and smaller, as it became more indistinct and 
 dim, until it seemed a thing of air, a point on 
 the great Circle, then vanished. She listened 
 to the mournful cries of the sea gulls flying 
 tirelessly around her and over her head. 
 
 Thoughts of the past scarcely entered her 
 mind, and Otero ranch paled before the new 
 glory of the sea. But always with her was 
 the thought of Juan inspiring her with hope 
 and confidence. Sebastian would find him to 
 morrow. Almost as though present the fu 
 ture seemed drawing near. Still standing 
 twixt doubt and fear the soothing influences 
 breathed by the sea, quieted her with a feeling 
 of repose and she was serenely happy. 
 
 Sebastian was tired ; he sat down on a rock 
 and watched Anita from afar ; but Anita 
 scarcely felt that she had a body; in the 
 midst of present distractions she was forget 
 fully happy and again and again she reminded 
 herself, 
 
 " I shall soon see Juan." 
 
 At last she looked toward Sebastian ; he was 
 smoking and watching the little rings of smoke 
 expand and break in the air. She ran back to 
 
124 JUAN PICO 
 
 him and sat down beside him. As she watched 
 him through the smoke she fancied he was 
 changing, and he appeared more and more 
 unusual to her until at last she asked quickly : 
 
 "Are you thinking of Otero ranch, Se 
 bastian ? " 
 
 " No, Anita ; and you must not think of it 
 again." 
 
 Anita without replying looked back to the 
 beach, as though vainly searching for some 
 ship that had passed from sight; then she 
 turned to him : 
 
 " Why not, Sebastian ? " 
 
 " Because it's no use to think of what's gone. 
 You just wait, and you'll have better times 
 than you ever had at Otero ranch, even if we 
 don't find Juan." 
 
 " Why, Sebastian, you will look for Juan 
 again to-night as you did last night, won't 
 you?" 
 
 "Certainly, Anita; but I begin to think 
 I'm almost afraid he's not come to Los 
 Angeles at all. I'm afraid it's more than 
 likely he's gone to San Diego." 
 
 " O, Sebastian, then what shall we do ? " 
 
JUAN PICO 125 
 
 "If I cannot find him here to-night, we 
 will go to San Diego at once, and look for 
 him there." 
 
 "But suppose we don't find him there, 
 either ? " 
 
 "Oh, now don't worry. I will look as I 
 said, to-night, and to-morrow we will know 
 what to do. When Juan goes to San Diego 
 he always stays a long time, for he has friends 
 there and business to look after, so we shall be 
 sure not to miss him." 
 
 " Yes, Juan used to tell me of San Diego 
 and of the vineyards there." 
 
 " To be sure, for Juan knows all about them. 
 When he was a little boy he lived there with 
 his father." 
 
 " Was his father rich, Sebastian ? " 
 
 "Yery rich. He owned big vineyards on 
 the table-lands of Mexico. The Pico family 
 have always been rich. They have given lots 
 of money to the church; Juan's father was 
 forever giving. When the priests saw him 
 coming toward the door of the Missions they 
 were glad, for a good sum was sure to pass 
 from his pockets into theirs." 
 
126 JUAN PICO 
 
 "Then he must have been a good man, 
 Sebastian." 
 
 "Oh, yes, he was a good man. But you 
 should have seen his wife, the Senora ; she was 
 a French woman from New Orleans : my ! but 
 she was pretty." 
 
 "But, now, Juan has no father nor mother," 
 said Anita, pensively. 
 
 " True, he is all alone in the world." 
 
 " Sebastian, do you think he will be glad to 
 see me ? " 
 
 "Yes, yes, I am sure. For he loves you. 
 And then, you know, I love you, too, Anita." 
 
 Anita's eyes studied his face ; she had hardly 
 looked at him all day, so absorbed had she 
 been in the new sights and scenes around her ; 
 indeed, she had hardly thought of him. Now 
 she began to think how sad and strange he 
 looked. He, too, was alone in the world and 
 how old he was, with his long, white beard 
 sweeping over his breast like a drift of snow, 
 with his small gray eyes shaded under heavy 
 white brows, that made her think of dormer 
 windows heaped with snow in pictures she had 
 seen of northern cities. His sombrero fell 
 
JUAN PICO 127 
 
 among the shells, exposing his long, silvery 
 hair, which lay upon his shoulders and sparkled 
 in the light of the afternoon sun. Anita felt 
 a pity for him : 
 
 " He is so old to walk from place to place." 
 Sebastian broke in upon her thoughts by 
 saying : 
 
 "As I said, if I don't find Juan to-night, 
 to-morrow I will take you to San Diego. If I 
 was alone I would wait here for Juan, but I 
 want to do everything I can to make you 
 happy, Anita, so we will go right away to San 
 Diego. Am I not kind to you, Anita ? Do I 
 not show that I love you ? When you were a 
 little child I used to carry you in my arms 
 into the fields, or help you climb into the 
 manger full of clover to watch the sheep 
 being sheared. And now, too, Anita, I will 
 do anything for you." 
 
 " Thank you, Sebastian," she said with an 
 air of kindness. 
 
 " But come, Anita, we must be going." 
 They rose ; it was growing chilly in the de 
 clining day. The sun was setting and casting 
 angry forks of fire into the sky ; through rents 
 
128 JUAN PICO 
 
 in a bank of clouds anchored on the horizon, 
 were flung shafts of salmon and of rose. 
 Slowly the bright red sky turned to violet, 
 and the sea showed a pale, ghastly green. 
 Beneath the cliff the monotonous waves rolled 
 up like the breathing of a sleeping giant. 
 
 They left the beach, Anita often looking 
 back. When the ocean was lost to view, Se 
 bastian said : 
 
 " Sing to me, Anita." 
 
 At first she was silent ; then, by and by, she 
 began softly to sing an old Spanish song the 
 Senora had taught her. Louder and louder 
 her lovely voice rang out on the clear air. 
 From the quiet landscape, there came at in 
 tervals the response of some homeward flying 
 bird. There were no other sounds. Silently 
 ever before them, floated their grotesque shad 
 ows, that pointed along the road as though 
 luring them into the realms of night. Pres 
 ently, way off in the distance like an accom 
 paniment, Anita heard the tinkling of bells. 
 She stopped and looked back. Coming along 
 through the broad sandy roads of the mead 
 ows were some Chinese laborers driving ox- 
 
JUAN PICO 129 
 
 carts that creaked under the weight of tower 
 ing loads of dried ferns and of kelp from the 
 seashore. Around the necks of the oxen were 
 tinkling bells, that beat time to the slippery 
 gutterals of the drivers. Sebastian and Anita, 
 waited until the carts had passed, then started 
 on again. When it was almost dark, they 
 were overtaken by a ranchero driving an 
 empty wagon, who brought them back into 
 Los Angeles. 
 
" When overwhelmed with grief 
 
 My heart within me dies ; 
 Helpless, and far from all relief, 
 To heaven I lift mine eyes." 
 
 WATTS. 
 
 AFTEKNOON of next day, found Juan in the 
 study of Father Jerome, who had returned 
 from Santa Monica earlier than expected. 
 Sitting at the heavy carved table he turned 
 slowly the leaves of the great sheepskin book 
 of records. At last he stopped : 
 
 " Come here, son, here is the record written 
 down distinctly. Bead it for yourself." 
 
 Juan stepped close to the father's side and 
 looking down sharply at the yellowing page 
 across which the father slowly traced the 
 lines, he read : 
 
 " Married, at eight o'clock, Juan Pico, and 
 Agatha Benoit, at this Mission, August 
 tenth " 
 
 " And here you see is the year, the signa 
 ture of Father Baptiste who married them; 
 
 130 
 
JUAN FICO 131 
 
 and here, the signatures of the witnesses. 
 Now you have seen the record with your 
 own eyes." Father Jerome leaned back in 
 his chair and smiled benignly. 
 
 " Thank you, father, and will you give me a 
 copy of it ? " 
 
 "Certainly. But I'm busy now, will to 
 morrow morning do ? " 
 
 " Yes, father." 
 
 "Very well; call here to-morrow about 
 noon." 
 
 "I will, father. A'Dios." 
 
 "A'Dios,son." 
 
 Left alone the priest fell into a musing atti 
 tude; his slender right hand held the book's 
 rude clasp and his dark eyes were fixed upon 
 the open page. He was thinking how, ever 
 since the foundation of the Mission, this an 
 cient volume had been handed down from 
 generation to generation. He remembered 
 that it had been used at San Luis Eey ; and 
 recalled the stirring incidents in church his 
 tory through which the book had passed. 
 Twice during skirmishes with the Indians it 
 had been conveyed away in the night for 
 
132 JUAN PICO 
 
 safety. Once it had been concealed in a bag 
 of oats and taken in the bottom of a cart to 
 Santa Barbara ; and once, near El Montecito it 
 was hidden in the shack of a Mexican who, 
 feeling honored by the noble confidence of the 
 fathers, had received the volume and guarded 
 it as a sacred trust. 
 
 At last Father Jerome reverently closed the 
 book, carried it into the sacristy, and laid it 
 away in a deep drawer, where wrapped in the 
 old lace altar cloths, the gold and silver com 
 munion services were kept. Eeturning to the 
 study he picked up a book and sat down in 
 the low window-seat. 
 
 On the walls on either side of the window 
 were pictures of the Virgin of the Pillar and 
 the Virgin of Anguish; over them were ar 
 ranged sacred palms and rosaries. About the 
 room were other rude pictures of the Madonna, 
 and also statuettes of the saints; all objects 
 dear to the heart of every Catholic. 
 
 Turning to look out of the window, Father 
 Jerome heard the bell for vespers begin to 
 ring. A musing look came into his eyes. 
 How many years, he thought, has that bell 
 
JUAN PICO 133 
 
 rung at the hour of twilight! To him, its 
 tone was almost human. For it rang so joy 
 ously in May when the city was white in its 
 decoration for the Fete-Dieu, and again it 
 moaned with such anguish, when the city was 
 draped in black on Good Friday. As he lis 
 tened to the bell, it rang loud and strong, then 
 low and pleading, now begging earnestly and 
 giving advice, now muffled and hesitating and 
 now clear and decisive. To-night it spoke to 
 him more than ever like a voice from heaven, 
 and he was lost in peaceful meditations. 
 
 But the bell ceased ringing, and continuing 
 to look out between the white fluttering win 
 dow curtains, Father Jerome fancied that in 
 the first dusk of twilight the whiteness of the 
 lilies was exaggerated, the gold dust of their 
 pollen made more visible, and he welcomed 
 the fresh, sweet breath of the garden that 
 reached him on the uncertain wings of the 
 evening breeze. 
 
 Through the half-opened door of his study 
 he could see into the church and could catch a 
 side view of the altar with its starry line of 
 wax tapers. At one side was a statue of the 
 
134 JUAN PICO 
 
 Virgin ; before her a woman was kneeling 
 with arms outstretched in supplication. Her 
 head was bowed, and in her hair he saw a 
 streak of grey. As he looked at her she threw 
 her head back and gazed appealingly into the 
 sanctified face of the Mother of Sorrows. 
 Tears gushed from her swollen lids ; her face 
 was pale and expressive of some great sorrow. 
 
 Odor of incense and the perfume of lilies 
 mingled in the air of the good father's study. 
 
 Outside the twilight symphony deepened 
 slowly under a sky of violets ; and flickering 
 in the arch of heaven, hung clusters of constel 
 lations. Father Jerome looked out into the 
 garden again, as though to find in the face of 
 nature that peace which had fled from the face 
 of the woman kneeling at the feet of the Yir- 
 gin. Hardly had he done so, when he heard 
 a knock, and looking up, saw the woman of 
 whom he was thinking standing in the study 
 door. With an air of compassion he came to 
 meet her. He took both her hands in his, say 
 ing: 
 
 " Peace be with you, madam." 
 
 She looked at him almost beseechingly from 
 
JUAN PICO 135 
 
 under her heavy brows, asking in a steady 
 voice : 
 
 " You are Father Jerome ? " 
 
 " Yes, madam." 
 
 " I am Senora Olga Gintaris." 
 
 "Ah," replied the father, offering her a 
 chair, " if I am not mistaken, of Otero ranch. 
 Some years ago in returning from San Buen 
 aventura to Los Angeles, I had the pleasure of 
 calling at your place." 
 
 " Yes, father, I recollect. It was soon after 
 you came up from San Diego, and I was grieved 
 to miss seeing you. I had hoped it would be 
 convenient for you to make Otero ranch a 
 second visit." 
 
 " It would afford me pleasure, but I seldom 
 leave Los Angeles, Senora." 
 
 " I understand. I know of your devotion to 
 your people." As she looked into the father's 
 emaciated, yet handsome face, and at his black 
 hair thickly sprinkled with grey, for an in 
 stant Senora Gintaris forgot her own suffering. 
 " And it is no easy task to give up one's life to 
 the poor and suffering. You should take care, 
 father, that you do not overtax yourself," 
 
136 JUAN PICO 
 
 " The mercy of God is never failing, Senora, 
 and while we work faithfully in His vineyard, 
 He will not see us lack strength." 
 
 The Senora did not reply ; there was a pause. 
 Outside the air was very still. Night deep 
 ened and expanded in its wonderful magnifi 
 cence. It was almost dark. Father Jerome 
 got up and lighted the old brass lamp which 
 stood on the table. Senora Gintaris sighed 
 deeply ; when the father was again seated she 
 said : 
 
 "Holy father, I am in great affliction. 
 Sister Magdalen, we were girls together in the 
 convent of San Luis Obispo, has sent me to 
 you." 
 
 With gentleness, Father Jerome replied : 
 
 " Senora, any service that I can render you 
 or Sister Magdalen I shall esteem a privilege." 
 
 " Thank you." The Senora rose and began 
 to walk slowly about the room. She was un 
 able to find words in which to express her 
 grief. 
 
 Suddenly from the mission, came the sound 
 of music. Some children began to sing. They 
 were being taught the mass. At first above 
 
JUAN PICO 137 
 
 the inwoven tones of the organ that began in 
 low, almost inaudible articulations, the voices 
 sounded confused and indistinct; presently 
 they grew clearer, more earnest, more entreat 
 ing, imploring, interceding. Like glorious 
 harmonies of angelic choirs, louder and 
 louder, higher and higher, gushing heaven 
 ward, rose the majestic music. Then slowly, 
 very gradually, upon the listening air, the ex 
 quisite accords sank back from completion 
 into silence. 
 
 Instead of assuaging her distress the voices 
 of the young choristers threw Seiiora Gintaris 
 into an almost uncontrollable fit of weeping, 
 and she stopped her footsteps as though to bat 
 tle for self-command. Father Jerome's kind 
 eyes rested upon her. 
 
 " Will you not tell me what troubles you, 
 daughter ? Speak freely, put it in my power 
 to help you." 
 
 In a broken voice, and with effort the Se- 
 nora began : 
 
 "Four days ago I discharged my head 
 ranchman, Sebastian Carmelo. He had dis 
 obeyed my orders I told him to leave the 
 
138 JUAN PICO 
 
 ranch next day. He did so. At the same 
 time my adopted daughter disappeared I 
 think he decoyed her away with him." 
 
 " How old is your daughter ? " 
 
 " She is thirteen ; a mere child, father, a mere 
 child. Brought up away from the world, she 
 knows nothing of its wickedness." 
 
 " By what means do you think he induced 
 her to go with him ?" thoughtfully asked the 
 priest. 
 
 " I cannot tell. I have no idea. Unless it 
 was by promises to show her Los Angeles. 
 The child has long been anxious to come here. 
 But this may be only an idle conjecture, 
 father." 
 
 " I understand. What reason have you for 
 believing that they are in the city ? " 
 
 " He told different people about the ranch 
 that he was coming here." 
 
 " You have no other proof ? he might have 
 said that to mislead." 
 
 " Yes, yes, father, but on the road leading 
 this way I found my daughter's rosary." 
 
 " That, too, might be a subterfuge." 
 
 " But, father, at San Fernando I learned that 
 
JUAN PICO 139 
 
 a man answering his description accompanied 
 by a girl had passed through there, coming 
 this way." 
 
 " Then in all probability they are here now. 
 We must commence the search immediately. 
 So far, what has been done ? " 
 
 "I reached here day before yesterday at 
 midnight. By daybreak Sister Magdalen had 
 employed two trusted men. They have been 
 looking ever since, but so far without discover 
 ing the slightest clue." 
 
 " Doubtless he has the child hidden in some 
 obscure part of the city." 
 
 The Senora quickly rose to her feet : 
 
 " What can you suggest ? I will bear any 
 expense. Money is not to be considered. 
 Give me your advice, father." 
 
 " My daughter, calm yourself ; be assured I 
 will lend you every aid in my power." 
 
 As the Senora resumed her seat, he asked : 
 
 " Has this man any friends in the city that 
 you know of ? " 
 
 " I think not. He is now quite old, and be 
 fore he came to Otero ranch, I hear, he led a 
 roving life, O, father, he has a revengeful, 
 
140 JUAN PICO 
 
 wicked nature. Like a dove in the power of a 
 serpent, my child is in danger. If she cannot 
 come back to me as she left me, I pray God 
 for her death. Help me, father, help me ! 
 She must be found." 
 
 Senora Gintaris stood erect, almost rigid, 
 her hands nervously clutching at her gown. 
 
 Father Jerome arose, saying : 
 
 " My daughter, I will not only go myself, 
 but I will arrange with others to search 
 throughout the city and its suburbs. If your 
 child is here, she shall be restored to you." 
 
 Senora Gintaris could only reply faintly : 
 
 "You shall have my everlasting gratitude." 
 She turned to leave. 
 
 " But before you go, Senora, give me a de 
 scription of your daughter and of the man." 
 
 Again the Senora seated herself, and as she 
 watched Father Jerome write down the mi 
 nute descriptions she gave of the pair, an ex 
 pression of hopefulness came into her face. 
 When she paused, the father asked : 
 
 " Is there any further particular ? " 
 
 " Yes, Anita's guitar is also missing. She 
 plays and sings like a bird father." Kis- 
 
JUAN PICO 141 
 
 ing, the Senora turned away ; she could not 
 conceal her tears. 
 
 Father Jerome went with her to the door, 
 saying : 
 
 "Place your dependence in the Holy Sav 
 iour of mankind. Ask the intercession of the 
 Blessed Yirgin. But to-night, my daughter, 
 you must not pray, but rest." He made a 
 motion as if to bless her, and the Senora 
 dropped upon one knee. Extending his out 
 stretched hand above her, he said : 
 
 " May the peace and the blessing of God be 
 upon you." The Senora made the sign of the 
 cross and quietly left the study. 
 
TEX 
 
 " And she was lost, and yet I breathed, 
 
 But not the breath of human life ; 
 A serpent round my heart was wreathed, 
 And stung my very thoughts to strife." 
 
 BYRON. 
 
 FATHER JEROME was seated before the 
 large table in his study, trying to repair a 
 statuette of Saint Joseph. 
 
 Crossing the meridian the golden sun dif 
 fused its brilliancy everywhere ; even in the 
 study the light was dazzling as though full of 
 something rare and precious. 
 
 Through an open door could be seen the 
 walls of the sacristy. They were covered 
 with red, green and gold representations of 
 the miracles accomplished by the Virgin. 
 Hearing footsteps, the father looked up, and 
 standing in the doorway of the sacristy he 
 saw Juan. 
 
 " Is that you, son ? Come in." Taking up 
 an envelope addressed to Father Ambrose, he 
 said, " here is the copy of the record. Would 
 142 
 
JUAN PICO 143 
 
 you like me to send it to Father Ambrose or 
 will you?" 
 
 " Thank you, I'll see that he gets it, father." 
 
 " Very well, son, as you like." Father Je 
 rome had dropped his eyes to his work; he 
 found it somewnat difficult to prevent Saint 
 Joseph from again losing his head. Juan saw 
 the father's predicament : 
 
 " Can I help you with that mending, 
 father?" 
 
 " Thank you, it would oblige me." Juan 
 went nearer to the priest. 
 
 " Place your finger just here. To the right 
 a little ; that's it. Now I can bind this cord 
 around." 
 
 As he bound on the head of the statuette, 
 Father Jerome mused : 
 
 "Ah, son, this is the way Satan binds us 
 with our sins, is it not ? Only, we have the 
 power to prevent him if we will. But so 
 often, so often, we do not resist ; then when 
 we are almost helpless, we cry to God and 
 sometimes chide him ; the good God, for what 
 we ourselves are to blame. Yet, because he 
 is good, he always forgives, always. There 
 
144 JUAN PICO 
 
 it is done ; you need not hold it any longer." 
 Moving across the room Father Jerome placed 
 the statuette on a shelf, saying : 
 
 "By to-morrow Saint Joseph will forget 
 that he has ever been injured." 
 
 He turned around and noticed Juan stand 
 ing. 
 
 " But sit down, son." 
 
 The priest motioned Juan to take the low 
 window seat. Erect in the still air, flowers 
 held up their heads and stared in upon them. 
 
 " Father, you are good to take all this trou 
 ble for me." 
 
 " Tut, tut, trouble ? Nothing is trouble that 
 is one's duty. I am glad I was able to help 
 you. To have a copy of the record was what 
 you wanted. It has made you happier to have 
 it, has it not ? " Juan bowed his head. " Ah, 
 I knew it had. Then no more thanks, for I 
 am well repaid." 
 
 "Can I do anything for you, father? If 
 I can, I'll do it." 
 
 " You will, son ? " 
 
 " I'll do anything I can for you." 
 
 " Then you are divinely sent. I have some- 
 
JUAN PICO 145 
 
 thing that you can do for me at once." Father 
 Jerome took Juan's big hand in his, looked 
 intently into his face and said in a slow voice : 
 
 " A woman for whom I have a great regard 
 has come to me in distress. I have promised 
 to aid her." 
 
 "Yes, father," Juan listened, but his eyes 
 rested upon the newly -mended statuette. 
 
 " Her daughter, a young girl has left home, 
 has run away. She fears the child has been 
 enticed to Los Angeles by a discharged serv 
 ant. Now you are a man that I can trust 
 to help look for her. The Senora wishes to 
 avoid publicity, therefore the search must be 
 conducted quietly. I will give you a descrip 
 tion of the two." Father Jerome paused, then 
 added : 
 
 "You are willing to help me in this mat 
 ter?" 
 
 "Yes, father, tell me what they look like 
 and I will go now." 
 
 "That is well. The girl is about thirteen 
 years old, very pretty; on that account the 
 Senora has many fears for her safety. She is 
 slender, of medium height, has large blue eyes, 
 
146 JUAN PICO 
 
 chestnut hair and handsome teeth. The day 
 she left home she was dressed in an old faded 
 blue gown, and wore a large straw hat with 
 roses on it." 
 
 Juan no longer looked at the statuette ; he 
 looked at Father Jerome and sat very still. 
 
 Father Jerome continued : 
 
 "And the man, let me see, what does he 
 look like ? Ah, yes, Senora Gintaris said " 
 
 " Senora Gintaris ! then it is Anita ! " Juan 
 sprang to his feet. " Who is she with ? " 
 
 " With a man named Sebastian Carmelo." 
 
 " Oh ! " Juan paced the floor, excitedly. 
 
 "But do you know this girl?" asked the 
 priest. 
 
 Juan made no reply ; suddenly he turned : 
 
 " When did they leave Otero ranch ? " 
 
 "Two days ago. Again I ask, do you know 
 this girl?" 
 
 " Know her ! I have known her nearly all 
 her life. Father, I I love her." He began 
 to walk the floor again, saying : " I will find 
 Sebastian, I will kill him ! " 
 
 Juan was pale, his eyes flashed, his deep 
 chest heaved and his lips trembled. He was 
 
JUAN PICO 147 
 
 possessed by an uncontrollable indignation. He 
 uttered disconnected words and broken threats. 
 Father Jerome looked at him gravely : 
 
 "Do not give way to such blind passion, 
 son. Eemember, ' Vengeance is mine saith 
 the Lord, I will repay.' Leave this man's 
 punishment to God." 
 
 Juan stopped walking ; he glared around 
 him like a desperately wounded bull. Father 
 Jerome went up to him and placed a hand on 
 his shoulder : 
 
 " Promise me you will not harm this man ? " 
 
 Juan looked up doggedly but made no reply. 
 
 " Then, as God's representative, I forbid you 
 to touch him." Father Jerome went to the 
 crucifix and sank upon his knees : 
 
 " Oh, Holy Saviour ! help this son of Thine, 
 help him to find the lost, and keep the one he 
 loves from harm." 
 
 Juan dashed from the room ; his whole be 
 ing ablaze with passion he rushed out into 
 the street. Like one bereft of reason he 
 clenched his hands so tightly that the nails 
 cut into the flesh. A terrible fear assailed 
 him. He knew that for years Sebastian had 
 
148 JUAN PICO 
 
 cherished a smouldering hatred for the Senora, 
 and that for years the Senora had despised 
 Sebastian, but each had found the other use 
 ful. The Senora liked homage, Sebastian 
 liked authority, and until now, they had con 
 tinued to tolerate one another. But at last 
 Sebastian was in a position to glut his hatred, 
 and what might he not do ? what awful thing 
 might he not accomplish ? Juan ran his fin 
 gers through his thick black hair. He must 
 find Anita and take her back in safety to 
 the Senora. He must he must. He was 
 ready to hazard even his hopes of heaven. 
 
 Hurrying along the street he scanned the 
 faces of all he saw. The sun beat down with 
 such power that the air trembled as with an 
 impending fear. Every one sought the shade 
 but Juan ; he alone, did not notice the intense 
 heat. Lighting one cigarette after another 
 he would take a puff or two, then throw them 
 away into the street. He turned into Senora 
 Town ; it was quiet, every one here had caught 
 from day its laziness. In front of the deserted 
 shops, seated on boxes or old chairs, were the 
 shop-keepers blissfully smoking. Bits of idle 
 
JUAN PICO 149 
 
 gossip passed along from one to another; 
 crossed the street and eddied away in the dis 
 tance like autumn leaves upon a stream. 
 
 Juan Pico appeared on the corner. 
 
 " There is Juan Pico, son of the fool million 
 aire," said one idler to another. 
 
 "Fool millionaire?" 
 
 " Yes, any man's a fool to give the amount 
 of money he did to the church. And what 
 thanks did he get for it ? Not any. Might 
 as well have thrown the money into the street 
 for all the good it did him." 
 
 In advance of Juan, this announcement ran 
 down the street, and as he came along dressed 
 in his old Mexican costume, all eyes were fixed 
 on him. His trousers were of sulphur colored 
 corduroy, slashed at the knee with claret silk, 
 which fell in fan-like plaits to his feet. About 
 his waist he wore a dull-red silk sash. Over 
 his white shirt was a gold tinselled jacket, and 
 on his finely shaped head rested a gray som 
 brero surrounded by a carved leather band. 
 He had scarcely passed two men who had 
 been staring at him with unconcealed curios 
 ity, when one said to the other : 
 
150 JUAN PICO 
 
 "Oh, I know him, I've seen him before, 
 he's a high-stake gambler." 
 
 Juan heard this remark and he might have 
 heard others, but he paid no attention ; he was 
 gazing earnestly into the shops. Soon he came 
 to Madam Gonfarone's saloon. Here he went 
 in. The ceiling was low and the heavy 
 beams almost touched his head. Between the. 
 beams in alternate rows were hanging dried 
 fish and apples. About the room were a num 
 ber of tables, around which several gamblers 
 were seated playing cards. Sailors and smug 
 glers resorted to the place, and so out of com 
 pliment to them the walls were decorated with 
 two or three old prints of vessels in full sail. 
 Behind the bar was a miniature ship made of 
 shells. At the further end of the room, in a 
 place of honor, very old and colored in simple 
 style, was a statue of Saint Peter. What re 
 volting scenes he must have witnessed ! What 
 oaths he must have listened to ! He, who had 
 also denied his Lord. 
 
 The air was stifling ; there was no ventila 
 tion in the room except through the open 
 door. 
 
JUAN PICO 151 
 
 As Juan entered, Madam Gonfarone canie 
 from behind the bar and stepped into the cen 
 tre of the room. She began to dance. Every 
 one was expected to pay attention and to be 
 amused at anything the madam was pleased to 
 do. So all eyes in the place were turned upon 
 her. 
 
 At first the woman danced a solemn meas 
 ure, very slow in step and gesture ; then hold 
 ing one hand above her head, as with a 
 castanet, and with the other imitating the 
 movements of a hand striking the strings of a 
 guitar, she began in a cracked voice to sing. 
 Throwing down their cards the men burst into 
 uproarious laughter. Juan silently leaned 
 against the bar. 
 
 At last the madam finished amid a furor of 
 applause. But she would not accept an en 
 core: 
 
 "No, I'm too fat. Besides you want too 
 much. You've already had more than your 
 money's worth." 
 
 One of her audience called out : 
 
 "You're getting stingy of your charms, 
 ain't you, madam ? " 
 
152 JUAN PICO 
 
 " Getting ? " replied another. " Madam ain't 
 never been over-free with her voice." 
 
 " 'Cause she couldn't afford to be, if she 
 wanted to have any left for herself." 
 
 Madam Gonfarone turned quickly to the 
 half-drunken sailor : 
 
 " Here you, shut up ! If you don't like my 
 voice, do you know what you can do ? You 
 can clear out. You can clear out, anyway ; I 
 don't want you in here any more." 
 
 " Oh, madam is touchy." 
 
 "Yes, I'm touchy. Do you hear what I 
 say ? Clear out of here. Drunken, lazy 
 loafer you." 
 
 " You're mad because I think you can't 
 sing, eh? Well, you can't, and everybody 
 knows it. If you'd been in the cathedral the 
 other night as I was " 
 
 " Saying your prayers, eh ? " snapped the 
 madam. "Well, it's time. You'll have to 
 work harder than I've ever known you to, if 
 you catch up. If you get into heaven, there 
 won't be many left on the outside." 
 
 In a maudlin voice the sailor continued : 
 
 " As I was a-sayin', if you'd been in the 
 
JUAN PICO 153 
 
 cathedral hie you'd heard a girl sing for 
 nothin'. An' she had somethin' in her throat 
 worth callin' a voice.' 1 
 
 " She sung for nothing, eh ? " The madam 
 tossed her head. "Must have been free if 
 you heard it." 
 
 " Yes, I heard it, an' I heard it for nothin'. 
 An' I was the only one that did hear it be 
 sides the old man who was with her an' the 
 organist." 
 
 Juan leaned forward, asking quickly : 
 " How old was the girl ? was she pretty ? " 
 The sailor braced himself to reply : 
 " Hie, 'scuse me. Pretty ? I s-should call 
 her lovely." 
 
 " Ha, ha ! " Madam Gonfarone laughed 
 coarsely, " Hear the old fool. What does he 
 know about anything's being lovely ? That's 
 rich! Let's have a drink on that." Going 
 behind the bar, madam poured out drinks for 
 all in the saloon. Turning to Juan, she said : 
 " You're one of us, ain't you ? Come, have 
 one off me." 
 
 All drained their glasses, drinking to the 
 madam's very good health. Then Juan 
 
154 JUAN PICO 
 
 treated the crowd, who voted him a good fel 
 low, one of the right sort. When they had 
 drunk, Juan questioned the sailor further : 
 
 " You say the girl at the cathedral was with 
 an old man ? " 
 
 "Yes, that's what I said." 
 
 " What did he look like ? " 
 
 " He he had a long white beard an' white 
 hair. He looked like s hie s-Saint Peter 
 up there on the wall." 
 
 Juan stared at the man, but for the moment 
 he was not conscious that he looked at any 
 one. An avalanche of fire rolled over him ; 
 it was true, then, Anita was in Los Angeles 
 in the power of Sebastian. 
 
 " Oh, I've seen that old codger," exclaimed 
 the madam ; " he's a sly one, he is ; he was in 
 here the other night, half drunk, asking about 
 when the ships sailed. He didn't seem to 
 know what he wanted though. First, he said 
 he was going to San Diego ; well, I told him 
 the days he could go. Then, he said he be 
 lieved he'd go to San Francisco. I told him 
 the Queen sailed to-day, and he went out say 
 ing he guessed he'd take it," 
 
JUAN PICO 155 
 
 Juan set his glass down upon the bar with 
 such violence that the wine splashed over and 
 ran down through his fingers. His lips 
 twitched, but it was some time before he could 
 speak : 
 
 " Did he say anything about the girl ? " 
 Madam Gonfarone turned to the crowd : 
 " Now he's waked up that there's a girl in 
 the case. Yes, he said the Thrush, his daugh 
 ter, was looking for an engagement to sing. 
 She's a professional," madam dwelt comically 
 upon the word professional, then made a little 
 courtesy, adding, " like myself." 
 
 All the men but Juan laughed, and one or 
 two nudged each other as much as to say the 
 madam was still a pretty smart woman. 
 
 Juan could scarcely breathe, the hot air of 
 the room sickened him. In the still atmos 
 phere the clouds of smoke lay motionless. 
 His cheeks burned, he felt as if every drop of 
 blood had gone to his head. Paying the 
 madam what he owed her, he went into the 
 street. Gold of midday had changed to yel 
 low ochre. A wind had come up from the 
 sea. Evening was not far distant. 
 
156 JUAN PICO 
 
 Up the street, he again passed the shops, 
 where some of the proprietors were still sit 
 ting outside, but to keep in the shade and out 
 of the declining sun they had been forced to 
 move a yard or two. 
 
 Juan looked neither to the right nor to the 
 left, but kept on until he reached the main 
 street and the headquarters for transportation 
 north. 
 
 " When does the next boat go to San Fran 
 cisco ? " 
 
 " On Thursday." 
 
 " Give me a ticket." 
 
 Arrangements completed, he left the place. 
 "Walking on down the street he came to resi 
 dences. Over the old stone garden walls, 
 looking like clusters of gold, great Ophir roses 
 hung. The familiar miracle of night ad 
 vanced ; into the melancholy splendor of the 
 atmosphere stole the sweet perfume of honey 
 suckles. Juan was not conscious of these 
 things ; he knew only that night was near ; he 
 took off his sombrero and walked on bare 
 headed. 
 
ELEVEN 
 
 " The setting of a great hope is like the setting of the sun 
 the lightness of our life is gone." 
 
 LONGFELLOW'S PROSE. 
 
 NEXT morning with a feeling of almost un 
 alloyed pleasure, Anita stepped into the cart 
 that was to carry them where the sailing ves 
 sel lay moored. Sebastian had persuaded her 
 that at San Diego they would surely find 
 Juan. 
 
 Above her, the glory of the early sunshine 
 filled the burning blue of the sky as a cup is 
 filled with wine. Pepper and blooming 
 faintly fragrant eucalyptus trees were on 
 either hand; flowers crowded to the cart 
 wheels. At last the breath of the sea moved 
 the leaves and flowerets and lifted the soft 
 rings from Anita's forehead. When they 
 came in sight of the ocean, she stood up and 
 gazed upon it, over the heads of the slow 
 moving oxen. And when they finally came 
 to the place of embarkation, she jumped to 
 
 157 
 
158 JUAN PICO 
 
 the ground with impetuous haste. A small 
 boat took them out to the ship. 
 
 Once on board, Sebastian ordered her to 
 tell no one her name or where they were 
 going. 
 
 " You see, Anita, we want to surprise Juan, 
 and if we tell people who we are, he may 
 hear that we are in San Diego before we see 
 him." 
 
 " But, Sebastian, I don't care if he does. If 
 we can only once get to him." 
 
 " We will, we will. San Diego is a small 
 place, and we shall easily find him." 
 
 By and by, it was an interminable time to 
 Anita, she saw the anchor hoisted and the 
 sails set. She smiled to feel the ship moving 
 beneath her. They were off, and she was 
 nestled in the feathers of one of the great 
 birds. And it would wing its way southward 
 to Juan. 
 
 Sebastian went below, and left Anita in the 
 care of a young Mexican woman with two 
 children. In a little while Anita had taken 
 the baby in her arms and was playing with it. 
 The elder child, a bright-eyed boy looked at 
 
JUAN PICO 159 
 
 Anita with the gravity of an old man. Sud 
 denly he turned to his mother, asking : 
 
 " Madre, is she the Holy Virgin ? " 
 
 The Mexican mother in fear that such sacri 
 lege would bring them harm, quickly drew 
 the child to her, saying with suppressed excite 
 ment : 
 
 " Hush, no ! You must not say such things. 
 Call the young lady, Senorita." Then, with 
 grave looks and serious tones, the woman en 
 deavored to impress upon the childish mind 
 the sense of a great sin committed. But 
 Anita with the laughing baby on her arm 
 sitting beside the sunburned mother, made a 
 pretty picture ; and the sense of sin was not 
 great enough to prevent the boy from stand 
 ing at a little distance and admiring her. 
 After a time the baby grew fretful and Anita 
 soothed it by singing a caressing Spanish lul 
 laby. The serious boy took his station close 
 beside her. Quite motionless he watched her 
 with an air of wondering worship. When the 
 song was finished he repeated in a soft little 
 voice : 
 
 " Gracias, carissima Senorita." 
 
160 JUAN PICO 
 
 When sunset came and the Mexican mother 
 and her children had gone below, Anita sat 
 alone ; and looking out over the flashing briny 
 radiance of the sea, she mused upon it as 
 though it held for her the wonders of the sea 
 of glass. 
 
 During the days that made up the voyage, 
 she spent many hours playing with the chil 
 dren and singing to them. The boy became 
 her almost constant companion. Sebastian 
 disturbed her very seldom ; but he was rest 
 less and looked at her frequently from across 
 the deck, as though baffled or impatient. In 
 Anita's quiet moods he never approached her. 
 Whether, because she no longer had the pro 
 tection of home, or, because love was teaching 
 her to know her own heart, Anita was passing 
 rapidly from girlhood into womanhood. And 
 the divinity embodied in her, like a two-edged 
 sword, kept Sebastian at a distance. To his 
 eyes her growing thoughtfulness made her, if 
 possible, more beautiful, but, like a veil en 
 veloping her, made her more remote. 
 
 The great bird gracefully sailed along and 
 Anita could soe to the east the yellow hills of 
 
JUAN PICO 161 
 
 the mainland, and to the west, as they rose and 
 disappeared, Santa Catalina and San Clemente. 
 But she grew tired of sailing and joyfully wel 
 comed at last the port of San Diego. Looking 
 toward the land, the weary voyagers saw the 
 feathery palms planted years ago by the mis 
 sion fathers, then, the white-walled buildings, 
 and finally, set in its background of distant 
 peaks, the town itself, that up a gentle slope 
 fell back from the beautifully curving beach. 
 
 With mutual exclamations of delight, Anita 
 lifted her little companion up so that he could 
 see what was going on. But he was heavy 
 for her girlish strength, so she helped him up 
 on a pile of boxes and stood beside him, hold 
 ing him closely to her, his dark head against 
 her rosy cheek. Sebastian came up. 
 
 " Well, Anita, here we are at San Diego ; " 
 he turned to the woman, "it is a beautiful 
 town, is it not, Senora ? " 
 
 "Yes, Senor." 
 
 " Anita, you shall see everything, and there 
 is much to see, too. First, I will show you the 
 mission, and where the noble Padre Jaume 
 was murdered by the Indians." 
 
162 JUAN PICO 
 
 " Yes, Senorita, you will see the very place 
 under the sacred palms where he was killed 
 and where he held up his crucifix and cried : 
 * Oh, help me, Jesus, save my soul ! ' " dramat 
 ically exclaimed the Mexican woman; after 
 a pause she added slowly, "and the good 
 father has long since joined the saints in 
 glory." 
 
 There was no opportunity to continue the 
 conversation, for all were absorbed in the prep 
 arations being made to cast anchor. Kopes 
 whizzed and rattled. "With jarring emphasis, 
 commands and curses rang out. Presently, 
 the sails themselves began to creak, and with 
 satisfaction Anita saw the great white wings 
 slowly folded. The flight was finished. Lit 
 tle boats crept alongside. Voices hailed from 
 them and from the decks of vessels anchored 
 near. Sebastian took Anita's hand in his, 
 saying : 
 
 " We shall soon be on land now and in the 
 shadow of San Miguel. In a little while I 
 will show you the table-lands of Mexico." 
 
 Anita did not reply. She withdrew her 
 hand and a slight sigh escaped her half -open 
 
JUAN PICO 163 
 
 lips. Sebastian's eyes narrowed like those of 
 a cat emerging from the dark and he said 
 with a touch of harshness : 
 
 " Get ready to go ashore, we must not waste 
 time." 
 
 Deeply engrossed with other thoughts, Anita 
 passed this speech unnoticed, and except that 
 she mechanically took upon her arm the shawl 
 that Sebastian had brought to her, she gave 
 no other indication that she had heard what 
 he said. 
 
 It came their turn to disembark. Anita 
 was helped into a dipping, tossing boat. It 
 danced over the springing waves ; it kept time 
 with the agitations of her heart. They reached 
 the landing place ; she stepped out upon the 
 shore with the eagerness of one entering the 
 promised land. 
 
 Without giving Anita time to say good-bye 
 to the Mexican mother and her children, Se 
 bastian led the way up the road. When they 
 were some distance away from the shore, he 
 dropped back beside Anita. At one moment 
 he was silent, at the next, garrulous ; but at 
 all times he wished to appear magnificent in 
 
164 JUAN PICO 
 
 her eyes. Looking about as they passed along, 
 he exclaimed : 
 
 " Ah, Anita, in the days when I lived here, 
 I was rich and a famous vaquero. No one 
 could throw the lasso further or tame a mus 
 tang quicker than I." 
 
 And so he talked, until he was quite out of 
 breath. Although Anita listened, she betrayed 
 but slight interest. Her eyes were searching 
 for a sight of Juan. 
 
 After a time they came to a small lodging 
 house. Here they stopped for the night. 
 
 Next morning, Sebastian told Anita to rest 
 in the house, while he would go out and 
 make inquiries about Juan. In a little while 
 he came back apparently overjoyed as he 
 said: 
 
 " I was quite right, Anita. Juan is here." 
 
 Anita gave an exclamation of delight. 
 
 " Yes," continued Sebastian, " Juan came 
 to San Diego a week ago, but he is not here 
 now ; " anticipating Anita's disappointment, he 
 added quickly, " he's gone out to a ranch near 
 here. He's coming back to-morrow." 
 
 Drawing a long breath Anita gave a sigh 
 
JUAN PICO 165 
 
 of relief : " Oh, I'm so glad we came, aren't 
 you, Sebastian ? " 
 
 " Of course I am, of course. But come, put 
 on your hat, and I'll take you down to the 
 beach. There's no use of our staying here, 
 doing nothing." 
 
 Her heart full to overflowing with joy, 
 Anita obeyed and spent the day with Sebas 
 tian near the ocean. They stayed upon the 
 shore until the great round sun of blood and 
 fire had fallen into the sea. Evening shadows 
 lengthened, and as they came back, on either 
 hand the landscape became indistinct. The 
 sandy road was forsaken, empty of travelers 
 or of laborers. Little stars looked down. 
 Clouds came up out of the sea. Gusts of 
 wind arose and died away. Night fell deso 
 late and sad, after a day of golden bright 
 ness. 
 
 Next day, at night, Sebastian came to Anita 
 saying : 
 
 "Juan has not come back to-day, but he 
 will surely come to-morrow." 
 
 And the next day he said : 
 
 " Juan has sent word that he will be away 
 
166 JUAN PICO 
 
 for some days ; he has gone to a ranch several 
 miles further off." 
 
 " Oh, Sebastian ! " exclaimed Anita, disap 
 pointedly. 
 
 " Now you must be patient, Anita, patient. 
 When Juan has attended to his business, he 
 will return.'' 
 
 And so Sebastian put the child off. For a 
 long time he invented excuses for Juan's ab 
 sence, many of them so flimsy, that if Anita 
 had not been brought up out of the world and 
 absolutely dependent upon the will of another, 
 she would quickly have recognized them as 
 false. 
 
 Through all his deceptions, Sebastian strove 
 cunningly to turn Anita's thought from Juan, 
 to himself. 
 
 Only a few days elapsed before Sebastian 
 hired an isolated house that had formerly been 
 occupied by a ranchero. It was a low Mexi 
 can adobe with three small rooms, and an 
 overhanging roof of terra cotta tiles; many 
 of which, had slipped from their places. 
 Along in front of the house was an old 
 adobe wall ; so that the dwellers in the house 
 
JUAN PICO 167 
 
 could not see, nor be seen, by those who in 
 frequently passed that way. Stretching to 
 the rear of the house and off to both sides 
 was a grove of gnarled and ancient olive 
 trees. Among them, planted irregularly, 
 were lemon, orange and apricots. Under the 
 shadow of a clump of date palms, stood the 
 house, almost embowered in vines and in all 
 directions crowded upon by a neglected vege 
 tation. 
 
 In this rude shelter, Sebastian collected a 
 few indispensable furnishings, such as tables, 
 clumsy benches, beds, and stools. The last 
 tenant had left behind some pans and kettles ; 
 these, Sebastian made use of. 
 
 Anita, like a migratory bird, thought only 
 of the end of her flight, and this change in her 
 mode of life troubled her but little. Sebas 
 tian often came near her, the consuming de 
 sire for intimacy increasing until he could 
 think of nothing else. He would tell her of 
 wonderful things that he would be able to do 
 for her. He promised her all things pleasing 
 to women, silks, jewelry, flowers and music. 
 His voice would be full of seduction. He 
 
168 JUAN PICO 
 
 spoke to her of pleasures they would yet 
 enjoy, surpassing any she had known. He 
 felt an animal-like rage for she did not under 
 stand, at least, she did not respond to him. 
 He took her hand and gazed at her. But she 
 would not look at him. 
 
 Anita avoided him, and more and more felt 
 afraid when he looked at her. As time went 
 on, she began to think that they might never 
 find Juan. She hid her tears, but sometimes 
 Sebastian heard her sobbing ; this irritated him 
 to tears also, but his, like vitriol, scorched his 
 soul. 
 
 "What are her sufferings to mine?" he 
 would mutter to himself. " Perhaps, she will 
 never love me, but I will live no longer with 
 out love. In a few years Death will claim 
 me. But until then, let me make up for all 
 the misfortunes I have suffered." 
 
 He had no future ; he did not recognize the 
 God who made him ; but when Anita's eyes 
 shone on him a secret fear rebuffed him and 
 he dared not offer her the profanation of his 
 unveiled thoughts. Never but the once had 
 he dared to kiss her. 
 
JUAN PICO 169 
 
 At each fresh evidence of her indifference, 
 his wrinkles deepened ; it distressed him like 
 an old wound, that he could not persuade 
 her to love him. But be his she should, if 
 not his willing, then his unwilling slave. She 
 should have no past, and her future should be 
 his. 
 
 By and by, he began to fear lest Fate who 
 had been so harsh to him might snatch her 
 away. The thought grew upon him, stunned 
 him, then roused him to action. No, that 
 should not be. He planned at once to de 
 stroy for Anita her hope of ever meeting 
 Juan. Devoid of pity, incapable of remorse, 
 that very evening he came to Anita, his eyes 
 piercing through the darkness like those of 
 a beast of prey, and said with an expression 
 of hypocritical sorrow : 
 
 "Anita, my little love, Juan Pico is dead." 
 
 Anita trembled like a young ash tree ; she 
 looked at him as though she herself were dy 
 ing. The old man was frightened, but he 
 continued : 
 
 " I am very sad, too, Anita, for I loved him. 
 it i terrible, I hare just heaj<i that 
 
170 JUAN PICO 
 
 three days ago he was gored to death by an 
 angry bull. The bells that rang yesterday 
 were tolling for him." 
 
 Anita fell forward fainting. Sebastian 
 thought he had killed her. But when she 
 recovered he did not hesitate to give her a 
 detailed account of Juan's death. She lis 
 tened, asking no questions ; but when he 
 stopped speaking she began to pass through 
 her fingers the beads of the rude black rosary 
 that had replaced the lost rosary of gold and 
 ivory. Finally she wept despairingly. 
 
 Next day she begged to be taken back to 
 the Senora. Sebastian replied coaxingly : 
 
 " Yes, Anita, in a few days." 
 
 After that as time went on, she occasionally 
 talked of the Senora and of the ranch. Se 
 bastian glad to have her talk at all, encour 
 aged her. Often he found her silently weep 
 ing; once he placed his hand on her pretty 
 brown head, asking : 
 
 " What is it, Anita, what is it ? " 
 
 " 0, Sebastian, do you think they have for 
 gotten me on the ranch ? " 
 
 no, Anita, they have not forgotten 
 
JUAN PICO 171 
 
 you. But do not go back and make them sad 
 with your tears." 
 
 " 0, Sebastian, I will never let them see me 
 weep," and she pitifully tried to control her 
 tears, smiling so sadly that any heart but his 
 would have been touched with compassion. 
 
 " I will feed the peacocks again and gather 
 flowers for the Virgin. It will not be long 
 before we start for home, will it, Sebastian ? " 
 
 " No, my little Anita, no." 
 
 " And you think the Seiiora will forgive me 
 for going away ? and that I shall sing to her 
 again?" 
 
 "Why, certainly, my little Thrush." 
 
 Anita longed for the Senora from dawn 
 until sunset, she dreamed of her at night. 
 She asked every evening : 
 
 " Do we go to-morrow, Sebastian ? " 
 
 To which Sebastian would reply: "Per 
 haps, perhaps, Anita." 
 
 And next day she would smile, asking : 
 
 "Shall we go to-day?" 
 
 " Well, not to-day. I cannot arrange for it 
 to-day." 
 
 Sebastian spent considerable time in the 
 
172 JUAN PICO 
 
 San Diego gambling and drinking resorts. 
 He was coming out of such a place one after 
 noon when he saw a repulsive-looking old 
 woman across the street. Almost at the same 
 time she saw him and called : 
 
 " Holla, Sebastian Carmelo. Is that you ? " 
 
 " Yes, who did you think I was, Paquita ? 
 Come with me. You've been a long time on 
 the way." 
 
 He led the old woman down the road, and 
 she began speaking in an apologizing tone : 
 
 " I started as soon as you told me, besides 
 I've had a hard time walking and traveling in 
 ox-carts. Where's the girl ? " 
 
 "Oh, she's safe, but she's fretting to go 
 home. You haven't come any too soon." 
 
 The old hag looked at him and grinned : 
 
 "And you need old Paquita, do you? 
 You're not so successful a lover as you were 
 forty years ago." 
 
 "Bah!" he said, "this girl's a saint yet, 
 and you know I still think something of the 
 saints." 
 
 Sebastian was overjoyed at the arrival of 
 the woman, and his face took on an added 
 
JUAN PICO 173 
 
 look of bestial cunning ; along the way to the 
 ancient adobe, he talked to her in confidential 
 whispers. They arrived at the cottage. Their 
 shadows fell at Anita's feet and she looked up 
 with a sudden, startled blanching of the face. 
 She rose at once, and drew back. Sebastian 
 said with a chuckling indescribable leering 
 grimace : 
 
 " Anita, Paquita has come to San Diego 
 and I have asked her to stay here until we go 
 away." 
 
 " But are we not going to-morrow ? " 
 
 "Well, not quite to-morrow, but we may 
 the day after." 
 
 The old woman began to make ready the 
 evening meal and Sebastian came up to Anita, 
 saying in a soft voice : 
 
 "Paquita will keep you company and I 
 shall not be afraid to leave you alone, now, 
 while I am trying to find a way to go back to 
 Los Angeles. She will take care of you and 
 do everything for you." 
 
 " O, Sebastian, take me to the Senora, take 
 me to her." She looked at him with a dread 
 ful entreaty. Sebastian's face was flushed a 
 
174 JUAN PICO 
 
 black-red and his hand was stretched out to 
 grasp her arm. Suddenly he recoiled and 
 shambled away, saying : 
 
 " I tell you I cannot start to-morrow. I am 
 not ready." 
 
 Anita watched first one and then the other ; 
 she seemed less to fear them, than to long to 
 be relieved of their presence. She ate supper. 
 When she had finished eating, Sebastian said : 
 
 " Anita, get your guitar and play for us." 
 
 Silently, she obeyed, her liquid voice ris 
 ing like some pure fountain. Sebastian and 
 Paquita sat opposite and listened with a sort 
 of dull wonder, as uncouth creatures might 
 listen to the notes of a dying swan. 
 
 When the sun was sinking in regal splendor, 
 Anita went out under the palms and remained 
 in the cool night air until she became quite 
 chilled. Tree toads were calling, and far off 
 a nightingale's song throbbed in bursts of 
 melodious melancholy. At last Anita came 
 into the house. 
 
 Sebastian and Paquita heard her moving 
 about in her little room. For a long time 
 afterward they sat motionless, occasionally ex- 
 
JUAN PICO 175 
 
 changing a muttered sentence. When white- 
 winged sleep had brooded and had wrapped in 
 silence all sounds within and without the hut, 
 Sebastian rose, put out the feeble lamp and 
 disappeared. 
 
 Paquita, doubly hideous in the moon's trans 
 forming light, crept part way after him and 
 listened. After awhile she heard a faint cry, 
 then a startled scream and a rushing sound. 
 Anita was at her door, but the hag was there 
 before her, and held the door closed to the 
 tender hands that beat against it. Paquita 
 nodded, she smiled, she heard wild cries and 
 shrieks : 
 
 " Paquita, Paquita, oh, help me Jesus ! " 
 It was a lonely hut, there were no passers-by. 
 
TWELVE 
 
 " Unruly blasts wait on tender spring ; 
 
 Unwholesome weeds take root with precious flowers ; 
 The adder hisses where the sweet birds sing ; 
 Where virtue breeds, iniquity devours." 
 
 SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 PAQUITA got up early and was making a 
 fire. Walking about in the blank grayness 
 she was at first hardly to be discovered. But 
 as the light increased, it gradually threw her 
 disagreeable outlines into bold relief. The 
 brightness of the transparent purity half 
 blinded her, and she shaded her eyes and 
 looked about her with the indecision of a bat 
 at noonday. By and by she began to get 
 breakfast. Bending over to place a kettle of 
 water on the fire, her mole-like vision made 
 her aware of a moving shadow. It was Anita 
 running down to the road. 
 
 Paquita dropped the kettle with a crash and 
 scurried in pursuit, shrieking : 
 
 " Here you, where are you going ? Come 
 back, come back, I say." 
 
 176 
 
JUAN PICO 177 
 
 Anita paid no attention, but ran on. The 
 old creature was beside herself ; rushing to 
 where Sebastian lay sleeping, she shook him 
 violently, yelling in his ear : 
 
 " Sebastian ! Sebastian ! The girl's running 
 off. Wake up, you old fool." She started out 
 and hobbled after Anita; but her yells had 
 awakened Sebastian, and he soon caught up 
 with her and passed her. When he reached 
 Anita, he clutched the poor trembling child 
 by the arm, saying : 
 
 " You didn't tell me you were going away, 
 my little Thrush. You shall go, soon, but 
 not to-day. Come on back to the house, my 
 dear." He tried to force her gently, but 
 tightly closing her lips she resisted with all 
 her strength. " What, you won't come ? Oh, 
 yes, you will, my dear. Now, don't be fool 
 ish, come." . 
 
 Anita's breast rose and fell quickly, her face 
 was flaming-red. 
 
 " No, I will not go back there ! " 
 
 By this time, Paquita had overtaken them. 
 Sebastian looked once more at the resolute 
 child, then said to Paquita : 
 
178 JUAN PICO 
 
 " Take hold of her arm, we'll help her to go 
 back." 
 
 Together they dragged Anita toward the 
 hut ; full in their faces the rising sun flung its 
 beams of sinless splendor upon them and upon 
 her. When they entered the hut, Anita was 
 very pale ; she shrank away from their hands 
 and said nothing. She would not even reply 
 to their questions. After a time Paquita had 
 prepared the breakfast, but Anita wanted 
 nothing. They forced her to eat. In every 
 thing they endeavored to look after her com 
 fort and to quiet her fears. She scarcely no 
 ticed them ; she was evidently praying. When 
 Sebastian had gone away for a short time, she 
 came to the old woman and entreated : 
 
 " Paquita, help me to get away from Sebas 
 tian. Please, Paquita. I will do anything 
 for you. I will pray to the Holy Yirgin for 
 you and to all the saints. Oh, help me ! " she 
 wrung her hands. 
 
 Cunningly the old woman looked at her, 
 then laid one of her shrivelled claws on the 
 child's shoulder. 
 
 "Wait, until he is gone away for a longer 
 
JUAN PICO 179 
 
 time. I dare not help you to-day. He would 
 kill me." 
 
 Anita looked at her beseechingly : " Then 
 you will help me, Paquita, to-morrow ? " 
 
 "Yes, I'll help you." 
 
 Anita grasped Paquita's hand, and gave an 
 exclamation of relief. The old woman turned 
 indifferently away, adding : 
 
 " But what do you want to go for, ain't he 
 good to you ? " 
 
 " Oh, Paquita, Paquita ! " she sobbed. 
 
 " Hush," said the hag, " here he is, he's come 
 back. I hear him coughing." 
 
 Days passed. Wretched days and horrible 
 nights. More than once Anita tried to escape, 
 but the attempt was useless, for watchful 
 eyes were always upon her. Through it all 
 Paquita pretended friendliness to Anita, and 
 that it was only the fear of Sebastian which 
 kept her from assisting her to get away. 
 
 One morning Paquita told the child that 
 Sebastian would be gone all day, and made 
 her up a little bundle of provisions, even going 
 so far as to give her some money, saying : 
 
 " Now, when I have gone to sleep, you steal 
 
180 JUAN PICO 
 
 away." She closed her eyes and pretended to 
 be oblivious to all around her. Anita started, 
 but she had only gone a short distance when 
 she came upon Sebastian who was waiting 
 for her behind a clump of palms. When he 
 brought her back to the hut he berated Pa- 
 quita so savagely that Anita was for the first 
 time cowed. She began to feel that it was 
 hopeless to think of escaping, and she fell into 
 a kind of apathy, only arousing from it to tell 
 her beads, or when they made her eat. 
 
 Sebastian often sat and admired her. One 
 day he broke the silence by saying : 
 
 " Anita, to-morrow I will take you out and 
 show you some more of San Diego." 
 
 " I do not want to see it," she replied in a 
 low voice. 
 
 " But I want you to, for I want you to be 
 happy." He came toward her. " I love you, 
 Anita, I love you ! Why do you turn away ? 
 Come, let us be merry. Get your guitar and 
 sing." 
 
 " I cannot sing I cannot play." Her eyes 
 filled with tears. For misery now lodged 
 where mirth had been. 
 
JUAN PICO 181 
 
 Sebastian did not urge the matter, but left 
 her and went out under the palms to smoke. 
 He thought he saw in her apathy, resignation. 
 And he promised himself that she would soon 
 be happy again, and with him. 
 
 Oftener and oftener he would sit beside her 
 and talk of his love for her, of her singing, 
 and of the wonderful things he would soon 
 take her to see. Sometimes she would stare 
 at him, then turn her head from him and look 
 longingly up into the sky. Karely did she 
 answer his questions. 
 
 Though Anita was indifferent to Sebastian, 
 Paquita was not. And often he would sit be 
 side her on a bench in the old olive grove 
 close by, and talk to her for hours in a strange 
 low tone. He found it easy to talk to Paquita, 
 she understood him so well. Frequently she 
 would say nothing, but her gestures implied 
 more than words. At times their conversation 
 was carried on with much zeal, but never did 
 they become so engrossed as to forget Anita, 
 and her possible attempt to escape. Thus life 
 went on in the old adobe. 
 
 All m that parched country were watching 
 
182 JUAN PICO 
 
 for the rain, for the coming of spring. They 
 knew that when the insupportable drouth was 
 over, California would be transformed into an 
 earthly Paradise. Then the country would be 
 full of the laughter of girls, and the songs of 
 birds. Everywhere would be renewed life. 
 
 In the intoxicating air of spring, doubtless 
 Sebastian would become more ardent, more 
 passionately venturesome. Even now, he was 
 regarding Anita with a senile tenderness, and 
 in imagination, was transforming himself into 
 a lover who could kiss the lips of the adored 
 one without hesitation and without reserve. 
 He dreamed that in Anita he had found the 
 fountain of youth ; he imagined that with this 
 fair creature near him, ever exhaling the fra 
 grance of her youth, he would live the rest of 
 his life in the enjoyment of renewed vigor; 
 and that Anita should learn to love him as he 
 loved her. But such a love as he harbored ! a 
 weird passion that flames madly and then con 
 sumes all that is true, all that is pure. One 
 reason that Paquita understood Sebastian, 
 was, that she had been loved with a passion 
 like his and afterward had been abandoned. 
 
JUAN PICO 183 
 
 Long since all sympathy for others, even for 
 herself, had ceased to trouble her. For her, 
 pity, compassion, love did not exist. Malice 
 and hatred were as much a part of herself and 
 as apparent, as are the quills upon a porcupine. 
 Sebastian had known her for many years ; and 
 when she was younger he had indulged a 
 fleeting passion for her. Though she had 
 never been beautiful she had formerly exerted 
 a strange fascination. Men had admired her, 
 and some had grown to fear her. Women 
 loathed her. She had no friends. She had 
 outlived lovers. How she existed no one 
 knew. She was a fungus transplanted out of 
 Hades. Such growths suck sustenance from 
 poisons. 
 
 The drouth increased in severity, lengthen 
 ing the period of stupidity and laziness. That 
 time that came between when every one was 
 waiting for the rain. Evening after evening 
 the red sun declined into the western waters 
 and shone on all the sombre mountains, on 
 San Miguel, Jamul and El Cajon that stood 
 nearest. Clouds occasionally gathered below 
 their shining snow-shrouded peaks ; this prog- 
 
184 JUAN PICO 
 
 nosticated rain. It had seemed as if it might 
 never rain again, and the sight of these an 
 choring clouds would fill the hearts of every 
 one with joy. Alas ! they gathered only to 
 disappear, like ships that slip their anchors 
 without unloading. The mountain-sides were 
 covered with rusty ferns and bright yellow 
 poppies, and as the sun struck them there was 
 a scattered magnificence of color radiating 
 with gold and copper. February was drawing 
 to a close, the new year was well on its way. 
 
 The ranchmen spent their time gathering 
 kelp on the seashore or dried ferns on the 
 slopes. These they loaded on heavy carts, 
 with wheels like solid disks. Then the loads 
 were strewn over the earth to make it more 
 productive. Close beside their oxen the ranch 
 men walked with an easy, nonchalant grace. 
 Their faces and their bare necks were as red 
 as the ferns. Hanging on the backs of their 
 heads were their big sombreros. 
 
 " If it would only rain ! " they exclaimed. 
 
 The priests had offered up prayers for it, 
 but still the earth was baked like stone. In 
 the country everything was fairly eaten up by 
 
JUAN PICO 185 
 
 the yellow powdered dust. As the days went 
 by they looked anxiously at the clouds that 
 should drop lower and lower ; they were wait 
 ing until the glorious rain, like a blessing 
 should sweep across the country and drench 
 it. Then the saps would spring into new life, 
 and the pleasant movement of rapidly growing 
 leaves and buds would begin wherever there 
 was foothold for a plant. Then as the even 
 ing came on, moist vapors would gather and 
 linger among the branches of the trees until 
 dawn, when they would vanish like small 
 clouds with linings of mother-of-pearl. Then 
 the evenings would be heavy with the odors 
 of magnolias and of orange blossoms. In such 
 a time the whole calm region would repose in 
 a twilight of overhanging rose-tinted clouds. 
 
 And the adobe hut stood on the parched 
 ground, as if it, too, waited for the rain ; 
 when it would lie mysteriously enmeshed in 
 the encircling Eden. 
 
THIRTEEN 
 
 " We are spirits clad in veils ; 
 
 Man by man was never seen ; 
 All our deep communing fails 
 To remove the shadowy screen." 
 
 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH. 
 
 ALWAYS tenderly cared for and protected, 
 it took Anita some time to realize Paquita's 
 wickedness. When she learned to know Pa- 
 quita she became hopeless. Descended from 
 a long line of Mexicans whose every instinct 
 had been developed in wickedness and vice, 
 Paquita was bound by the irons of custom, as 
 a slave is riveted to his chains. She had 
 grown old, but without feelings of regret, for 
 she had no aspirations to be other than she 
 was. Without resistance she had abandoned 
 herself to the corrosions of her fatal life. If 
 ever a glorious veil of illusions had hung be 
 fore her eyes, it had not been torn away, but 
 had mouldered to pieces before them. Now 
 she was silent, morose and desolate with noth- 
 186 
 
JUAN PICO 187 
 
 ing certain before her but death. Hatred pre 
 dominated every feeling within her. 
 
 She trusted no one, Sebastian trusted no 
 one, and when their eyes met they smiled ; 
 but though they smiled, they saw in each 
 other something to be afraid of. Often they 
 talked together in whispers, or slunk away, 
 treading lightly as monks in sandals ; Anita 
 only felt the sunshine brighten when they dis 
 appeared. 
 
 Paquita occasionally tried to amuse Anita 
 by reciting Indian or Mexican superstitions, 
 or at other times, relating an episode out of her 
 own history. Anita seldom appeared to listen, 
 but once after Paquita had been telling her of 
 her little sister and of her mother, Anita sud 
 denly asked: 
 
 " If I go back to the Seiiora, do you think 
 she will forgive me ? " 
 
 Paquita stared at her and dropped the piece 
 of old lace she was mending. 
 
 "Forgive you?" she asked shrilly, "the 
 high born Seiiora ? ha, ha ! " 
 
 " But I would never go away again." 
 
 " You'd have to. The Senora would never 
 
188 JUAN PICO 
 
 take you in. Do you think she would have 
 you in the house again ? Of course not. Be 
 sides you're Sebastian's girl now." 
 
 "I do not belong to Sebastian." Anita's 
 tear-marked cheeks flamed, and the dark vio 
 let shadows about her sad eyes grew deeper. 
 
 " Oh, yes, you do. You know that as well 
 as I do. You're not fit to talk to such women 
 as the Seiiora any more." 
 
 Anita uttered a little scream : " Stop, Pa- 
 quita ! " 
 
 This exasperated Paquita ; she went on : 
 
 " Oh, you are an innocent, ain't you ? Well, 
 let me tell you she wouldn't wipe her shoes on 
 you, now. And some day you'll be no better 
 to look at than I am. So you might as well 
 have a good time. I have. I haven't missed 
 much. And that's the truth." 
 
 Anita gazed at her unable to speak. 
 
 Paquita went on remorselessly : 
 
 "You are an ungrateful girl, that's what 
 you are. Sebastian is very good to you, but 
 you don't know when you're well off. You 
 have plenty to eat and nothing to do, what 
 more do you want ? If you mind him and do 
 
JUAN PICO 189 
 
 what he tells you, it won't be long before 
 we'll all be rich." And Paquita jabbered on, 
 Anita too horrified to reply. 
 
 After awhile Paquita missed the child, and 
 found her hidden behind the thick trunk of 
 one of the date palms in an agony of prayer. 
 
 From this time Anita began fully to realize 
 that she suffered. Now Sebastian often per 
 emptorily insisted that she should play and 
 sing for him, and after a struggle she yielded. 
 At first the tears ran down her cheeks and the 
 music caused her bitter anguish; but finally 
 when she was ordered to sing or play she 
 would apparently fall into a half-conscious 
 state paying attention to nothing but the 
 music. 
 
 Little by little, Sebastian began to tell her 
 of the life he had planned for her. 
 
 " Anita," he would say, " you will become a 
 great singer ; then you shall see all the wonder 
 ful and beautiful things there are in the world. 
 What you have seen is nothing to what is be 
 fore you. You might as well have died as to 
 have gone on living as you did at the ranch. 
 Don't say you don't want to go with me, for 
 
190 JUAN PICO 
 
 if a girl is beautiful she should let others have 
 the pleasure of admiring her. If she has a 
 grand voice she should not hide it away from 
 those who would gladly pay to hear it. All 
 that we have we should give to the world. If 
 we do, the world will repay us liberally for 
 all we give. What seems wrong is sometimes 
 right, what seems right is often wrong. It is 
 foolish to say otherwise. Those who are older, 
 can tell you that. Our own inclinations and 
 desires are often all wrong, and by and by, 
 Anita, you will see that I am telling the truth 
 and that I love you. When that time comes, 
 you will be glad to do everything I tell you." 
 If Anita looked at him his voice would 
 tremble, and often he would stop. At such 
 times Paquita would laugh disagreeably at 
 his discomforture. This always made him 
 angry, but in a few moments he would again 
 commence to talk of his golden dreams, and 
 time and again he poured the same story into 
 Anita's ears, until the sound of his voice be 
 came almost unbearable and she would have 
 been glad to have been deaf. He would say 
 with a maudlin, simpering smile : 
 
JUAN PICO 191 
 
 "You do not know how rich, how famous 
 you will be, my beautiful Anita, my song 
 bird. Some day you will sing and the whole 
 world will listen. You will make every one 
 who hears you happy. And I I will always 
 care for you and always love you." 
 
 In reply, Anita would silently shake her 
 head. 
 
 One day when the drouth was partly re 
 lieved by clouds that rose from the ocean 
 without, however, yielding up their rain until 
 they were driven upon the peaks of the Sierra 
 Madre, Sebastian and Paquita, after talking a 
 long time together, came to Anita who was 
 outside on one of the benches in the grove, 
 and Paquita said : 
 
 "Anita, Sebastian has lost all his money and 
 we've got to have some, for there's nothing in 
 the house to eat. He wants you to go with 
 him and sing in the street." 
 
 " No," said Anita, firmly, " I will not go." 
 
 "Well, then," replied Sebastian, impatiently, 
 " we shall all starve. But if you'd rather do 
 that, than sing, all right. I will not urge 
 you." 
 
192 JUAN PICO 
 
 For two days Anita had nothing to eat. 
 Paquita and Sebastian apparently ate nothing. 
 During this time Sebastian droned over and 
 over again to Anita, how wicked she was in 
 refusing to use the gift God had bestowed 
 upon her, and then would add : 
 
 " Very well, if you refuse to help me earn 
 money, you will be to blame for your own 
 death, to say nothing of Paquita's and mine. 
 I am afraid to think where your soul will go 
 if you commit murder." 
 
 Eventually, weak from fasting she yielded 
 and relapsed into the habit of obedience that 
 had been so well taught her by the Senora, 
 and went with Sebastian into the little town 
 of San Diego. Here she played and sang 
 with such a pathetic quality in the slender 
 flute-like voice, that the crowd which gathered 
 about them were wonderfully moved; and 
 when Sebastian asked alms for his daughter 
 and himself, saying : " We are so poor, sefiors," 
 the rude ranchmen were very generous to him. 
 A saloon-keeper standing to one side, spoke 
 up: 
 
 " Why didn't you tell me that your daugh- 
 
JUAN PICO 193 
 
 ter sang ? If you want to, I'll make a bargain 
 with you to have her sing in my place every 
 day." 
 
 "Well," replied Sebastian, hesitatingly, 
 " we're going up to San Francisco before long. 
 Perhaps you wouldn't want her to sing for 
 only a few days." He rubbed his hands to 
 gether slowly. 
 
 " Yes, I would ; bring her along, bring her 
 down to-morrow. I'll pay you and let the 
 girl pass around the hat for herself, besides." 
 
 Sebastian's face wore a pleased smile : 
 " What will you give me ? " 
 
 After a little haggling they agreed upon a 
 price. The saloon-keeper held out his hand : 
 
 " It's a bargain, then ? " 
 
 "It's a bargain," replied Sebastian, taking 
 the proffered hand ; " I'll fetch her down to 
 morrow. A'Dios." And he hurried on to 
 overtake Anita. 
 
 Sebastian and the saloon-keeper had carried 
 on their conversation partly in an aside, and 
 Anita who had been looking up toward the 
 great conical peak of San Miguel, and paying 
 no attention to the dispersing crowd, was sud- 
 
194 JUAN PICO 
 
 denly attracted to the small church near-by 
 and started toward it. She was in the shadow 
 of the building when Sebastian caught her by 
 the arm. 
 
 " Come," he asked roughly, " where are you 
 going?" 
 
 " I'm going into the church." 
 
 " Going into the church, what for ? " 
 
 " To confess." 
 
 " To confess ? ha, ha ! Gome along with 
 me. What would the Holy Father think of 
 your confession ? He wouldn't listen to it. 
 If he did, he would tell you, what I tell you, 
 that you should love those who are taking 
 care of you, and try to please them. The 
 priests don't expect people like us to make 
 confessions. Come, don't sit down here." 
 
 Despite Sebastian's command, Anita sank 
 down on the wide steps. He continued to 
 talk. And after waiting a few moments he 
 compelled her to rise, and in the golden haze 
 they went slowly down the irregular street. 
 
 Just entering the town, and coming toward 
 them in a rude cart, was a Mexican family. 
 The mother looked closely at Sebastian and 
 
JUAN PICO 195 
 
 at Anita, then exclaimed to the boy beside 
 her: 
 
 " Look, Carlos ! the old man and the Se- 
 norita that sang to you on the boat." 
 
 At first the boy eagerly followed her point 
 ing finger, then he looked disappointed. As 
 long as he could, he studied Anita's face ; when 
 she had passed he turned toward his mother. 
 She looked down and asked smilingly : 
 
 " Did you see the Senorita, Carlos ? Would 
 you like to hear her sing again ? " 
 
 The child said nothing, but solemnly shook 
 his head. 
 
FOUKTEEN 
 
 " The sea's eye had a mist on it, 
 And the leaves fell from the day." 
 
 FRANCES THOMPSON. 
 
 UPON the voyage to San Francisco the old 
 couple completely devoted themselves to the 
 young girl. Paquita waited on her, Sebastian 
 sat beside her, always talking, praising her and 
 continuing to promise her all things that 
 money could buy. 
 
 He would run his fingers through his thin 
 white hair and gaze into the future with the 
 wild imaginary eyes of an astrologer. Anita 
 should bring him an immense fortune ; already 
 he felt it in his grasp. When she appeared in 
 San Francisco, she would shine in her inno 
 cence and beauty like the flowers of the field 
 at a banquet. In the excitement of the new 
 life she would soon be gay again ; she would 
 not always remember Juan. She would learn 
 to love applause, and to wish for all the 
 luxuries of life ; then she would be glad to ap- 
 196 
 
JUAN PICO 197 
 
 pear before the cynical eyes of all great cities. 
 How she could sing ! What a dancer she was ! 
 In his thrifty imagination he pictured himself 
 as returning each night from the theatre, his 
 pockets bursting with gold. Borne along on 
 the rushing river of fame, Anita should forget 
 her past life. She should be the song bird of 
 the world, and he alone should know her name, 
 and he alone would be always with her. He 
 would keep her in a golden cage and would 
 make her enamored of her cage. 
 
 Thus in his last days he saw before him this 
 picture of a life of ease, as a glorious mirage 
 framed magnificently in gold. His anticipa 
 tions filled him with so great a satisfaction 
 that his triumphant sense of a glutted revenge 
 upon Senora Gintaris was at times forgotten. 
 
 They arrived in San Francisco. Anita was 
 not very well, so for a time Sebastian delayed 
 the matter of securing an engagement. But 
 he did not forget daily to drop seeds of 
 thought in the fresh soil of her mind. He was 
 confident that they would soon spring into life 
 and bear fruits of many kinds. By and by, 
 Anita would understand him fully, thank him 
 
198 JUAN PICO 
 
 for his tender care and love him, as he longed 
 to be loved. His opal-like eyes moved rest 
 lessly in their sockets and his blood tingled. 
 
 Each day Anita was brought into a closer 
 acquaintanceship with the natures of her two 
 companions. With a shrinking fascination she 
 looked into their cruel, sensual faces. Through 
 them, she understood for the first time in her 
 life the meaning of vice and wickedness. They 
 laid their thoughts and lives shamelessly open 
 to her, and the previous teachings that she had 
 received caused her to revolt with loathing 
 against them, and against the life she was 
 leading. She leaped quickly from childhood 
 to womanhood, not through years but through 
 afflictions. 
 
 The thought that they were trying to make 
 her like themselves, and that in time she might 
 grow willing to be like them, filled her with 
 unspeakable horror. But in spite of herself, 
 she began to grow accustomed to their natures. 
 Forced to live with them she was obliged to 
 yield to their peculiarities. Though at first, 
 she had listened to their ambiguous words 
 shudderingly, now, when they attributed evil 
 
JUAN PICO 199 
 
 to persons whom she had been taught to re 
 gard as saints, and when they inferred that 
 bad motives lay at the root of all good deeds, 
 she heard these things from their lips as a 
 matter of course. They even spoke against 
 the goodness of Juan and the Senora. This 
 was more than she could bear, and a flame of 
 deepest resentment would rise up, to be fol 
 lowed by poignant grief. Gradually, their 
 malicious suppositions affected her less. No 
 longer joyful, and afraid to hope, good people, 
 good deeds, life itself became indifferent to 
 her. But to know that evil natures such as 
 stirred within Sebastian and Paquita, existed, 
 never ceased to stun and to overwhelm her. 
 With terror she realized that a great shadow 
 was shrouding her future in darkness, and 
 carrying her rapidly away from days of hap 
 piness. 
 
 Sebastian's slothful habits were now undis 
 guised. If possible his laziness increased. In 
 a thousand ways , he manifested that idleness 
 was a bliss of the first magnitude to him. 
 Hardly second to this, was the satisfaction 
 that he derived from his authority over Anita, 
 
200 JUAN PICO 
 
 The pet of the haughty Seiiora was now in his 
 power. Never for an instant did he falter in 
 his purpose to utterly contaminate her na 
 ture. 
 
 Sometimes Sebastian would take Anita off 
 into the country. He would choose days of 
 golden unshadowed sunshine, or days when 
 there were only the shadows of clouds on dis 
 tant hills. Lying on the warm earth in the 
 sun, often for hours he neither talked nor 
 cared to listen. He liked the simple savagery 
 of hours of utter idleness. Occasionally he 
 would make Anita sing to him. And her 
 haunting voice was never more sweet than at 
 such times. He would look at her through 
 half-closed eyes, and think how supremely 
 ideal she was and that she belonged to him. 
 How fast she was conforming to his designs. 
 Yes, she would soon be his, completely. 
 
 Anita retired into her own soul. She could 
 not believe Sebastian, she could not believe 
 Paquita ; she only knew that she was walled in, 
 inexorably bound with grave clothes. Juan 
 was dead. The Seiiora would never forgive 
 her. She went where she was bid ; she played, 
 
JUAN PICO 201 
 
 she sang, she danced. Daily she grew more 
 accustomed to Sebastian's authority. 
 
 She began to appear in the saloons of San 
 Francisco, always with great success. This 
 gratified Sebastian, and brought his vision 
 of showers of gold still nearer. When she 
 gained more confidence he would strive for 
 her appearance on the stage. She was young ; 
 the present experience was good for her, and 
 he could afford to wait. He must remember, 
 too, that she was not strong. But it began to 
 be a grievance to him that she did not regain 
 her strength. 
 
 For some days in the late summer, Anita 
 had been more than usually depressed. This 
 worried Sebastian and he determined to give 
 her the benefit of a day by the sea. The salt 
 air always revived her, and as they were mak 
 ing money now, he felt extremely generous. 
 So early one morning they started out on an 
 all day's excursion. 
 
 As Anita looked upon the fading glories of 
 the summer fields, there came over her a feel 
 ing of utter desolation and loneliness. She 
 the Michaelmas daisies were in bloom, 
 
202 JUAN PICO 
 
 but she no longer looked eagerly for the fox 
 glove flowers that shoot up their long pink 
 rockets above the infinite lace work of the 
 rusty ferns. In the dried-up water courses 
 gaudy purple and yellow blossoms flaunted 
 themselves in her eyes, but she did not heed 
 them, and she listened without interest to the 
 chorus of invisible insect life. They passed 
 by a house from which came music and laugh 
 ter. She looked up at it wondering if every 
 one was happy and she alone of all the world, 
 homesick and miserable. Near by a melodi 
 ous finch poured out its soul in rapturous 
 music. In the azure sky she saw an eagle 
 poised upon outstretched wings. She watched 
 his circling flight until he hovered a tiny speck 
 in the great vault of electric blue. She saw 
 him swoop down to strike his quarry, then 
 rise again and wing his way inland toward 
 some mountain peak. 
 
 Finally they came to the beach ; Sebastian 
 hoped to see her dance along beside the waves 
 as she had on the day when he had first 
 brought her down to the ocean. But she 
 only gazed sadly at the rolling, sparkling 
 
JUAN PICO 203 
 
 water. He sat down on a rock and allowed 
 her to wander away from him. 
 
 The sky, the birds, the flowers were sym 
 bols, waking in her memories of Otero ranch. 
 She had begun to live two lives, and these 
 recollections constituted the life of her soul. 
 Again she lived through the long afternoons ; 
 there were the old women nodding half asleep 
 in their easy chairs on the shady side of the 
 house. Before them bloomed the azaleas and 
 the passionless white camellias. Who gathered 
 them now for the Virgin and for the good 
 nuns? She heard the Angelus, she saw the 
 sudden glimmer of twilight, and the hands 
 gathering about the steps of the long veranda, 
 smoking their cigarettes and exchanging bits 
 of idle harmless gossip. Above the waves of 
 suffering which rolled over her, was one terri 
 ble thought which flung itself uppermost like 
 the mast of a sunken ship: "I shall never 
 see Juan again or madre mi." A tight cord 
 seemed bound about her head and the glow of 
 fever was on her face. Tears swelled to her 
 eyes, but she forced them back upon her heart. 
 She prayed ; " Do not let me forget them," 
 
204 JUAN PICO 
 
 Recollection after recollection filled her 
 mind. Love, purity and happiness mingled 
 together for a moment ; but the pictures were 
 no sooner formed than despair heightened 
 their dissolving glories. 
 
 Two certainties ate into her heart; her 
 own sorrow, and the unforgiveness of madre 
 mi. In her day-dreams Anita still called 
 her madre mi. Secretly she prayed that she 
 might never see her again, and secretly, too, 
 she prayed that she might sometime see her 
 forgiving face. 
 
 When the sun sank magnificently to rest, as 
 a dying Sultan might, Sebastian and Anita 
 returned to the city. Long after they left 
 the sea, the cries of the gulls, to which she 
 had listened so apathetically, rang in Anita's 
 ears, touching keys in her memory, and mak 
 ing harmonies, which time nor life nor death 
 could ever obliterate. 
 
 Though Anita continued to sing and to 
 dance, as day followed day, Sebastian noticed 
 with alarm that she grew more pale and less 
 able to endure fatigue. He took her to a 
 physician who prescribed a sea voyage, and 
 
JUAN PICO 205 
 
 advised that Anita should spend the next few 
 months further south where the trade winds 
 were less severe. He suggested Los Angeles. 
 
 Sebastian was angry, he was opposed to 
 leaving San Francisco at all. Anita was 
 popular in the saloons. They were making 
 money. Then he wanted to stay away from 
 Los Angeles. But if she got worse, she might 
 die. He thought the matter over and decided 
 to run the risk. Juan had, without doubt, 
 long since gone inland to some ranch. In all 
 probability the Senora had given up the ef 
 fort she might have put forth to find Anita. 
 Besides Los Angeles would be as good a place 
 in which to pick up a little money as any 
 town along the coast. Anita should sing and 
 dance often enough to keep them comfortable, 
 and the remainder of the time she should do 
 nothing but rest and get well ; after that she 
 would be able to earn more money than be 
 fore. So Sebastian took passage for the three 
 in a sailing vessel bound for southern ports. 
 
 When they arrived in Los Angeles, Sebas 
 tian began and kept up an industrious search 
 until he found a deserted adobe similar to the 
 
206 JUAN PICO 
 
 one he had hired in San Diego. There they 
 settled themselves. The long road so seldom 
 used by travelers, passed in front of the 
 house ; then twisted its way through the calm 
 valley and off over the hills near the moun 
 tains. 
 
 It was the continuation of the old San Fer 
 nando road, and joined, like a link in a chain, 
 the mountains and the sea. Over its sinuous 
 course the royal troops of Spain once marched 
 and countermarched to the call of bugles, si 
 lenced now some two hundred years. It is 
 the road of greatness and of disappointment. 
 Like the uncertain fortunes of many who have 
 trodden it, it is the road of poverty and of 
 wealth. At one point no great distance from 
 the adobe, one can see the wide circle of blue 
 waters stretching far off to the horizon where 
 the clustering little islands rest, and that seem 
 to mark the limit of the world. Near the 
 mountains the sweeping landscape widens, and 
 the country, rich in the foliage of grapes, is 
 dotted here and there with fallow fields and 
 with the red tiled roofs of white adobe houses. 
 From its greatest height, the road rushes with 
 
JUAN PICO 207 
 
 hurried descent into the valley beyond, as if 
 longing for the solitude of the canons. Then 
 it winds in and out among the well-worked 
 ranches as if happy in its usefulness. Along 
 its sides the old fences have fallen to decay 
 and the rocks are covered with thick cushions 
 of moss. Treading along over its surface gen 
 erations have come and gone. And on the 
 first fair road of California universal life has 
 left its trace, marking how great is the bond 
 of good fellowship 'twixt nature and mankind. 
 Surrounding the adobe was an overgrown 
 garden. In days gone by it had been the 
 heart's delight of some poor Mexican. For 
 still in wild profusion grew French pink lilacs ; 
 planted at regular intervals were aromatic 
 herbs ; and strangely out of place transplanted 
 from its home in the Orient, stood a dwarf 
 double-flowering cherry tree. These little 
 trees, rarely found in California, are always 
 regarded with religious superstition, and are 
 spoken of in many tales of romance. Paquita 
 would often tell Anita how the sailors pledged 
 their troth with them, and then sailed away, 
 sometimes never to return. When she found 
 
208 JUAN PICO 
 
 a yellow rose of Texas with a white and red 
 slip grafted to it, Paquita smiled wolfishly, for 
 she remembered how in those old gardens 
 lovers planted them as witnesses to their truth 
 and loyalty. She pulled the plant up by the 
 roots and threw it away. 
 
 Paquita liked the gaudy flowers of the 
 south, and spent a good deal of time in the 
 garden. Too indolent to train the plants or 
 to water them, she would go out and walk 
 around, and walk over them, the more pleased 
 if her heavy tread bruised them into emitting 
 a strong perfume. Once she tried to straighten 
 a vine that trailed along on a part of the 
 wall ; she wanted to twist it over the top, but 
 it was a wisteria whose original stem was like 
 the trunk of a tree, and after one or two feeble 
 efforts she gave up the attempt. But she 
 spent some time training the little stems 
 around the far-reaching branches. 
 
 If Paquita was not in the garden, Anita 
 would go out and lie in a hammock slung be 
 tween two trees. There she would stay for 
 hours scarcely moving; she would look list 
 lessly at the clouds, or listen with closed eyes 
 
JUAN PICO 209 
 
 to the chirping of the birds. Sometimes she 
 lay so motionless that Paquita would look at 
 her, as a vulture might, for a sign of life. Once 
 she gathered some flowering cherry stems and 
 bound them together with a cord of myrtle. 
 Then she brought them to Anita, saying : 
 
 "There's some flowers for you. That 
 myrtle means hope. If you fasten it on your 
 dress, it may bring you luck." 
 
 Anita thanked her, without looking up. 
 She could not bear to see the ulcer in the cor 
 ner of her mouth. And she tried to avoid 
 touching her hands, for they were hard and 
 dry, and about her fingers were usually small 
 particles of earth and stains from the herbs. 
 As Paquita went into the house, Anita won 
 dered what she had been like as a girl. She 
 might have asked Sebastian. But Anita asked 
 no questions. In the old days the Senora had 
 not allowed her to, and here there was noth 
 ing left for her but obedience and silence. 
 The Senora used to say : 
 
 " What is best for you to know will be told 
 to you ; leave the rest to me." 
 
 If the rest had only been told to her, at 
 
210 JUAN PICO 
 
 least if she had been taught to know the ap 
 pearance of evil. 
 
 Whenever she was able Sebastian would 
 take her to the saloons to sing and dance. Of 
 late as she grew no better he showed impa 
 tience over her continued indisposition. There 
 was no sense in her being sick. And he began 
 to think that she was lazy. He determined 
 to rouse her. Many times when the child 
 could scarcely drag one foot after the other, 
 he would force her to accompany him. If she 
 stumbled or fell, it would throw him into a 
 towering rage, and he would take hold of her 
 arm with such a fierce grip that Anita would 
 cry out in pain. 
 
 Day after day, she grew worse ; but evening 
 after evening Sebastian took her into Los An 
 geles. She had been lazy long enough ; time 
 was passing, and she must begin to work if she 
 ever became a great singer. At last one even 
 ing, after a day of frightful heat, there were 
 indications of a coming storm. Anita was ill 
 and also terrified at the sight of the great 
 black clouds. When Sebastian began to get 
 ready to go out, she begged : 
 
JUAN PICO 211 
 
 " Oh, Sebastian, please, don't make me go 
 to-night. It's going to storm. I'm afraid. 
 Please, let me stay here." She was pale and 
 haggard, the very shadow of her former self. 
 But Sebastian looked at her without the least 
 mercy, saying : 
 
 " Stay home, eh ? You're getting tired of 
 earning your living, are you ? That comes of 
 my being too good to you. Put on your hat." 
 
 " O, Sebastian, please." 
 
 " Get on your hat." 
 
 Without further entreaty she made ready to 
 go, hung her guitar about her neck and fol 
 lowed Sebastian. The clouds came nearer ; if 
 they broke the storm would be furious. Anita 
 was weak and cold and tired. Once she stag 
 gered and came near fainting. Sebastian 
 turned his head callously away and walked on 
 rapidly in advance. 
 
FIFTEEN 
 
 " If you could go back to the fork of the road, 
 Back the long miles you have carried the load ; 
 Back to the place where you had to decide 
 By this way or that through your life to abide ; 
 Back to the sorrow and back to the care ; 
 Back to the place where the future was fair, 
 If you were there now, a decision to make, 
 O pilgrim of sorrow, which road would you take ? " 
 
 OFF the port of Eedondo two great ships 
 were about to pass each other. The old Santa 
 Maria had tossed upon the waves all the long 
 distance from Alaska, and her sails were 
 bound close to the masts. Over the infinite 
 desolation of troubled waters she had forced 
 her weary way. Winds and rains in the far 
 north had torn away the topmost sails, and 
 the white gulls with coral-like legs sat motion 
 less in the rigging. The ship was heavily 
 weighted with dried fish consigned to the 
 ports of Mexico and Lower California. 
 
 The Queen, like a great white swan, had 
 come up from South America, bringing with 
 her the golden fruits of the tropics. 
 212 
 
JUAN PICO 213 
 
 The two ships were about to touch each 
 other in passing. Eager for a moment's 
 pleasure the sturdy sailors leaned over the 
 rails and exchanged concealed presents which, 
 according to the custom with sailors in south 
 ern waters, were not to be opened until the 
 ships were far out to sea. Shouts of laughter 
 from deep chests rang in the air impregnated 
 with the healthful odor of tar. The winds 
 were uncertain and a light drizzling rain fell. 
 Some freight had been exchanged, and the 
 ships were delayed in parting. Finally bells 
 rang, whistles were blown and commands 
 shouted. In deep vibrating voices the crews 
 sang together and the two great birds of the 
 sea glided away in the darkness. Gradually 
 all sounds were swallowed up by the rustlings 
 of the intervening billows and soon in the veil 
 of misty rain the lights vanished. 
 
 The Queen had made a leisurely trip from 
 the south, stopping at various ports discharg 
 ing or taking on the different kinds of mer 
 chandise. At San Diego, she had remained 
 but a short time, the amount of freight there 
 being light. Among the passengers who 
 
214 JUAN PICO 
 
 came aboard was Juan Pico. But not the 
 Juan Pico of a year ago. Careless in dress he 
 walks now as a man upon whose shoulders 
 there rests a heavy burden. The lines of his 
 face have become firmer, more hardened. On 
 his temples the hair is touched with gray. 
 And his eyes have the alert look of a hunter ; 
 they scrutinize men and women closely. He 
 has become a searcher. 
 
 Indifferent to the rain, Juan stood on the 
 deck and listened to the last faint sounds from 
 the departing vessel ; then he turned his eyes 
 in the direction of Santa Monica. He was 
 going back to Los Angeles. How long it was 
 since his hasty departure for San Francisco a 
 year ago. What changes might he not find 
 at the mission. For a long time he had not 
 written, or heard from Father Jerome. "Would 
 he find him well? God grant it; his good 
 friend in whom he could trust so perfectly. 
 He longed to see the father, to tell him in de 
 tail all that he had done to find Anita, and in 
 return to hear more fully of the efforts he and 
 Senora Gintaris had made. But, perhaps, 
 Anita had been found and was already back 
 
JUAN PICO 215 
 
 on Otero ranch. Perhaps she was dead ! He 
 walked the deck nervously. To him the ves 
 sel scarcely moved. If he could only jump 
 overboard and swim ashore. By and by, the 
 steady swash of the waves against the prow 
 quieted the throb of his aching head. Throw 
 ing himself down on a coil of rope, he pulled 
 a piece of canvas over him and soon fell 
 asleep. 
 
 Hours passed ; as they came nearer land the 
 rain ceased; a strong breeze was blowing, 
 which continued to grow hotter. In the air 
 were small particles of dust. Juan awoke un 
 comfortably warm ; he cast off the heavy 
 canvas and sprang to his feet. They were not 
 far from port. In a short time they would be 
 in Santa Monica. Everywhere was bustle 
 and confusion. He hurried below to gather 
 up his few belongings. When he returned to 
 the deck, the vessel had cast anchor. Tran 
 quilly suave and slightly pink, the day began 
 to break. The golden flashes of the sun came 
 on in unchangeable immobility and silence, 
 bathing the mountain peaks in salmon and 
 rose, and spreading over the valleys a gray 
 
216 JUAN PICO 
 
 gauze veil, while in the canons and clefts of 
 the mountains it was still dark. The rain 
 which had threatened, had not fallen, and the 
 whole earth was dying of a feverish thirst. 
 As day advanced Juan heard the distant bells 
 of the Angelus ringing at Santa Monica, and 
 his whole being was imbued with a sense of 
 hopefulness and felicity such as he had not 
 known for months. With a feeling of relief 
 he disembarked. 
 
 Ascending a hill near the edge of the town, 
 he paused to look back. What a glorious pan 
 orama was spread before him! The distant 
 shore line ran clear, against the blue waters. 
 Heaped along the boarder of the lower hills 
 were the rugged cliffs. His eyes irresistibly 
 turned to the valley. There, over the fallow 
 fields and masses of motionless trees, was 
 spread the fiery effluence of the sun. He came 
 out upon a road leading to Los Angeles. He 
 saw the familiar shapes of enormous pepper 
 and eucalyptus trees and the strange outlines 
 of the cypress, that smelled of the distant 
 Orient. A ranchero driving by asked him 
 if he would ride. He started to get in the 
 
JUAN PICO 217 
 
 wagon, hesitated, thanked the man and told 
 him he preferred to walk. Though Juan 
 longed to see the father, he also dreaded to 
 meet him. "What news might he have to tell ? 
 It was early ; he did not want to reach the 
 house before Father Jerome was up. It was 
 not far. He would walk. 
 
 As he journeyed, he noticed that all the 
 little streams had famished ; that the sheep on 
 the hills were panting with thirst ; that even 
 the grass was dry and lifeless; that over 
 everything, penetrating to the very heart, 
 was the merciless, maddening dust. In the 
 slightest breeze it swept across the country 
 like clouds in the desert. Juan's eyes smarted 
 with the sting of the alkali. He met men 
 and women loaded down with water which 
 they had gone miles to procure. They prayed 
 for rain and declared that unless it came 
 soon, death was certain to every living thing. 
 Wrapped in snow, he saw the Sierra Madre 
 Mountains. Their towering peaks were eighty 
 miles away, and yet they looked so near. 
 "Why did not the snow melt? What good 
 did it do away off there in the freezing still- 
 
218 JUAN PICO 
 
 ness ? And here it could bring back to life 
 both flowers and beasts. The heat from the 
 sun began to grow almost unendurable ; there 
 was no shade and he walked on rapidly. 
 
 bearing Los Angeles he saw that the once 
 rapid, rushing Los Angeles river was now no 
 wider than a trout stream. In the original 
 bed of the river grew strange plants with 
 yellow and purple flowers. And the water 
 that did flow through, was warm. It had 
 passed over the burning plains at the foot of 
 the mountains. He came to an old tumbled- 
 down barn. In its shade he rested. A deep 
 silence filled the air ; all things became dim 
 and strange to him, and his thoughts drifted 
 off he scarcely knew why, to the quiet mission 
 of Santa Barbara, where the monks passed 
 their sacrificed lives in peace and quietness. 
 It had been years since he had seen it, but the 
 grand old picture returned to him like a 
 dream. Along the corridors he saw the quiet 
 monks pass and repass. And above them in 
 the shadowy arches round their clay-built nests 
 he saw a thousand twittering swallows fly. 
 How far off from him seemed that cool, that 
 
JUAN PICO 219 
 
 restful place. He bound the red silk sash 
 tighter about his head, then rubbed his eyes 
 with the backs of his hands. Rising, he went 
 on toward the city whose roofs mingled here 
 and there with dried-up apricot trees, were 
 now visible. He saw the roof of the mission. 
 His heart beat faster ; he hastened his foot 
 steps, but drawing nearer, he walked slowly 
 and heavily. 
 
 At the mission he stopped to allow a 
 wedding party to pass out. He folded his 
 arms and gazed at the little bride blushing 
 beneath her wreath of orange blossoms and 
 under her veil of white. Preceding the bride 
 and groom were two children carrying lighted 
 tapers, and strewing violets, thyme, and crape 
 myrtle over the stones of the pavement. An 
 aged mother walked behind with a few 
 friends. Soon they all got into a large 
 wagon that was covered like a tent with 
 white muslin. The front was open like a 
 large old-fashioned bonnet, while the back 
 was tightly closed. Lashed to the back of 
 the wagon were a number of boxes contain 
 ing turkeys, geese and ducks, that, as the 
 
220 JUAN PICO 
 
 wagon started, thrust their long necks through 
 the slats and set up a great clatter ; to this ac 
 companiment the happy bridal party drove 
 away. They had come in from one of the 
 ranches and were returning to a life of happi 
 ness among the hills. 
 
 In the spire of the old cathedral near-by the 
 chimes began to play and rippled away over 
 the roofs in a rain of melody. Juan leaned 
 against the wall numb and anguished. The 
 wagon disappeared in a cloud of dust. He 
 walked into the mission and kneeled down in a 
 dark corner. The candles were still burning ; 
 white flowers were scattered in the aisle from 
 the door, even up to the white altar. And 
 there was the dull odor of incense. 
 
 Now and then, poor Mexicans came noise 
 lessly into the church and knelt down to pray 
 before their favorite saints, and the rattle of 
 their beads resounded against the heavy 
 wooden rails. After a long time Juan raised 
 his head, and looking up from among the 
 shadows, he saw Father Jerome pass behind 
 the altar and enter the sacristy. Then he 
 arose and also passed through the sacristy. 
 
JUAN PICO 221 
 
 Soon he stood at Father Jerome's door. It 
 was open ; the priest was busy writing. Juan 
 waited, quietly studying the good father's face. 
 Presently Father Jerome laid down his pen 
 and began to fold the paper. Juan stepped 
 forward ; the father glanced up and exclaimed : 
 
 " Juan Pico, my son ! " the priest cordially 
 came to meet him. " How glad I am to see 
 you, but," he added, hastily, as he led him to a 
 chair, "I am forgetting; I ought not to be so 
 glad to see you, for you have neglected me 
 shamefully. Ah, son, why have you not writ 
 ten me ? Your long silence has made me very 
 uneasy for your own welfare, as well as sure 
 you had no news. I wrote twice to you in 
 San Francisco, but you did not answer. Then 
 I wrote to Father Michael. He replied that 
 some time before you had been to see him and 
 he had done what he could for you." 
 
 "Yes, father," said Juan, thoughtfully, "I 
 took the letter you gave me to him ; he was 
 good ; he tried to help me, but it was no use." 
 Then starting up quickly, he asked: "Have 
 you heard anything from her ? do you know 
 where she is ? " 
 
222 JUAN PICO 
 
 " I'm sorry to tell you, Juan, but we have 
 been unable to find the slightest trace; be 
 yond the ones you knew a year ago, that they 
 were here for a day or two, and started for 
 San Francisco." 
 
 " That was wrong, they never went to San 
 Francisco," replied Juan, stolidly, " they went 
 to San Diego." 
 
 "You followed them there?" Father Je 
 rome leaned forward eagerly. 
 
 " Yes, but I found they'd gone. If I'd only 
 gone down to San Diego sooner." Juan looked 
 away hopelessly ; then he added : " But there 
 isn't a place in San Francisco that I didn't go 
 into. If they'd been there I'd have got her 
 away from him. All the while I spent search 
 ing there, was time wasted." He looked 
 blankly out of the window, as he asked: 
 " What have you and Senora Gintaris done ? " 
 
 " For weeks after you went away," said the 
 father quietly, "we had men scouring the 
 city and the surrounding country, but without 
 avail. First, there would come a rumor that 
 they had been seen here, then there, up the 
 country or on the coast, but always when the 
 
JUAN PICO 223 
 
 Senora had such rumors followed up by a 
 careful search they would prove to be ground 
 less. At last, disheartened, the Senora re 
 turned to Otero ranch." 
 
 Juan turned to the father : " Have you told 
 her that I was looking in San Francisco ? " 
 
 "Yes, and she begged me to write her as 
 soon as I heard from you." 
 
 " Father, I didn't write, because I thought 
 every day I'd find her. And I kept hoping it 
 would be the next day or the next, until I got 
 discouraged. Then I took a vessel down the 
 coast. At San Diego I got track of them; 
 they'd been there all the time I was in San 
 Francisco." 
 
 " If we had only known it ! " exclaimed the 
 priest. 
 
 Juan continued in a lifeless way : 
 
 " Folks around there say they were awfully 
 poor. Most of the time they lived in a little 
 adobe, way off from everybody. He got some 
 old woman to come and live with them." 
 Juan's nostrils expanded ; he breathed la- 
 boredly. "Before they left there he made 
 Anita sing in the streets." 
 
224 JUAN PICO 
 
 " Sing in the streets, my son ? " 
 
 " Yes, he made her do worse than that, be 
 fore they went away ; he made her sing in a 
 saloon." 
 
 " Mother of God ! " said the priest crossing 
 himself. 
 
 " And it's made her sick. They say down 
 there she doesn't look like the same girl. Oh ! " 
 Juan rose and walked back and forth from 
 the window. 
 
 " Did you find out where they have gone ? " 
 
 "Yes, he said he was going to San Fran 
 cisco. But he lied before, probably he has 
 again. And it was so long ago." 
 
 " How long, son, since they left San Diego ? " 
 
 " Nearly nine months. She may have died 
 in that time. But if she's alive I'll find her." 
 Juan threw back his head. "I'll find her. 
 To-morrow, I go back to San Francisco. If 
 he's there he won't get away from me this 
 time." Juan was repressing inward sobs. His 
 heart was bursting with grief. 
 
 Father Jerome came to him, and took his 
 hand, saying earnestly : 
 
 "Go, search for her to the ends of the 
 
JUAN PICO 225 
 
 earth." The priest opened the innermost 
 chamber of his heart. " I speak to you, son, 
 through suffering, from years of repentance. 
 I, too, have loved. When I was a younger 
 man than I am now, I cared for a woman, as 
 you care for Anita. We had a quarrel ; she 
 went away. I did not know where; in my 
 anger, I did not try to find out. I was wrong. 
 Had I done as I ought, my life would have 
 been blessed by her companionship." The 
 priest turned away and sat down at his desk ; 
 after a moment he looked up earnestly at Juan 
 standing so still, and he added : 
 
 " The love of a good woman is a benediction 
 from God. And He has given woman to man 
 that she may help and cheer him. It is your 
 privilege, nay, your right, son, to rescue Anita." 
 As the father paused, Juan came and sat down 
 in a chair near him. Father Jerome's clear 
 eyes looked into Juan's, as he continued : 
 
 " No man is worthy of happiness, who does 
 not strive for it." 
 
 Greater contrast could not have existed be 
 tween two men than that between Father 
 Jerome and Juan Pico. 
 
226 JUAN PICO 
 
 Father Jerome in his home in Quebec had 
 been accustomed to association with the most 
 cultured people. And in his younger days, as 
 his family were possessed of wealth, he had 
 enjoyed the advantages of foreign travel. His 
 noble bearing suggested an inclination for the 
 military, but when his soul glanced from his 
 eyes there spoke the poet in him. His voice 
 was extremely gentle and carried with it the 
 mingled tones of authority and sadness. After 
 his college days in Montreal were ended, he 
 went to Spain in search of health. Upon his 
 return it was a great surprise to his friends to 
 learn, that without giving a reason, he had en 
 tered the church. The next surprise was his 
 flight to San Diego. But the never-ending 
 tide of life surged on, and now they had al 
 most forgotten him. He had dropped out of 
 the lives of his old associates as a star disap^ 
 pears from a constellation. 
 
 Father Jerome would not have come to 
 Southern California at all, had not his failing 
 strength forced him there. Most of his boy 
 hood had been spent in the gloomy solitudes 
 of the Saguenay, and as a youth he had hunted 
 
JUAN PICO 227 
 
 and fished on the shores of Lake Saint John. 
 He loved the gray skies of Canada ; and all 
 his early associations made it difficult for him 
 to yield an unreserved allegiance to the seduc 
 tive charms of perpetual summer. But grad 
 ually his early predilections were outlived and 
 he allowed the land of sunshine and of flow 
 ers to win him completely. 
 
 When he first came from San Diego to Los 
 Angeles he had cherished the fond hope of 
 building a new church that would be a credit 
 both to his efforts and to Los Angeles ; but 
 gradually this hope Kad crumbled to dust. 
 The poor were everywhere ; and when he 
 looked upon their needs, he felt it would be a 
 sin to spend large sums of money upon a 
 handsome edifice. 
 
 With returning strength, he threw his whole 
 soul into the work. By the hundred, he had 
 written bootless letters to the priests in Can 
 ada, asking, yea, imploring help for the pov 
 erty-stricken community about him. Equally 
 bootless had been his visits to San Francisco. 
 Sometimes he obtained great promises from 
 the owners of mines or of great ranches, but 
 
228 JUAN PICO 
 
 as the weeks stretched into months and the 
 months into years he lost faith in many of his 
 people. But never in his God ; and he worked 
 on untiringly, comforting and helping all to 
 the best of his ability. His nature was a 
 strange admixture of hopefulness and despond 
 ency. Powerless to do anything for the hun 
 dreds who sought his aid, he would sometimes 
 grow weary, indignant and disheartened, and 
 would leave the mission in charge of a young 
 assistant and visit for days the faithful Mexi 
 cans in the canons. Then remorse for his 
 weakness would come to him and almost with 
 out a farewell to his host, he would hasten 
 back to the mission. Possibly he understood 
 Juan's nature the better for having some weak 
 nesses of his own. At any rate there was no 
 one in California who knew why he had en 
 tered the priesthood, or to whom he talked 
 more freely than he had to Juan. 
 
 After a while Father Jerome and Juan 
 went out on the veranda ; and there they sat 
 most of the day; the priest comforting and 
 advising Juan. At length all was settled; 
 soon it was evening, and Juan had only to 
 
JUAN PICO 229 
 
 wait for another day to come and he would be 
 on his way to San Francisco. Night was 
 coming on rapidly, gray shadows gathered 
 hurrying to succeed the scented day. About 
 ten o'clock they rose to part for the night. 
 Laying his hand upon Juan's shoulder, Father 
 Jerome said : 
 
 " No matter what sorrow may come to you, 
 my son, never for an instant doubt the good 
 ness and mercy of God. Be patient and He 
 will guide you. Good-night. The little room 
 at the head of the stairs is reserved for you. I 
 shall go into the mission now. But you must 
 rest." The two men held each the other's 
 hand in a warm clasp ; then the priest went 
 into the church. The holy season of Advent 
 was at hand and he was to spend the night in 
 prayer. 
 
 Juan walked round the mission and through 
 the garden. Companionship with Father Je 
 rome had caused every noble thought that he 
 had ever known to spring into renewed life. 
 Hope and faith like twin stars shone above 
 the horizon of his imagination. Of the two, 
 he saw hope the plainer, and she beckoned to 
 
230 JUAN PICO 
 
 him, lured him on, so that he again made 
 ready to launch his plans upon the incoming 
 wave of expectation. 
 
 In this mood the garden was confining to 
 him, and he walked out into the street. Hope 
 whispered, " the world may yet be Paradise." 
 And with quiet breath he thought : 
 
 " I will bring Anita back to the Senora and 
 we shall be happy again." 
 
 The rain that had threatened earlier in the 
 evening and had fallen in occasional flurries 
 had passed by and the air was silent in the 
 hush that comes before a storm. Off on the 
 horizon, Juan saw a small sad cloud appear ; it 
 was bursting with water. Presently, it was 
 followed by others. They grew to mountains 
 and hurried across the sky. A strong wind 
 from the sea rent and tore them. "Was it pos 
 sible that the long expected rain was near ? 
 
SIXTEEN 
 
 " The snowdrop and then the violet 
 Arose from the ground with warm rain wet; 
 And their breath was mixed with fresh odor, sent 
 From the turf, like the voice and the instrument." 
 
 SHELLEY. 
 
 GROWING darker and their weight increas 
 ing the heavy clouds dropped lower and lower 
 over the town. One moment a gale would 
 catch up the dust in a blinding sheet and 
 carry it furiously away ; then a calm would 
 follow. Overhead, the clouds continued to 
 rush madly together. And far off, or nearer 
 by, could be heard the noise of the scurrying 
 wind. 
 
 Walking along the street Juan pushed 
 against the wind and the eifort accorded 
 with his feelings ; he was wide-awake, every 
 faculty on the alert; he was thinking, and 
 planning. 
 
 " If Sebastian is in San Francisco I will be 
 sure to find him." 
 
 He had thought the time previously spent 
 
 331 
 
232 JUAN PICO 
 
 there, wasted. But it was not, for now he 
 knew the place well, and there was not a re 
 sort Sebastian could go, where he would not 
 eventually be able to find him. 
 
 And Anita ; when he thought of her prob 
 able ill-treatment his blood surged like a mol 
 ten river in his veins. When he had found 
 her and taken her away from Sebastian, he 
 would send word to Father Jerome, and let 
 him notify the Senora. The Senora had or 
 dered him never to see Anita again, but when 
 she knew that he had rescued her, and was 
 bringing her back to Otero ranch, what would 
 she say ? Would she look at him with scorn 
 as she had before ? 
 
 An intense longing swept over him to see 
 Anita. How would she look ; would she smile 
 and give him her hand as she did that day 
 when he told her that he loved her? The 
 agonizing thought of the possible distance that 
 separated them, was only made bearable by 
 the hope that he might find her in San Fran 
 cisco. 
 
 Suddenly he stopped ; he found himself out 
 side Madam Gonfarone's. In front of the sa- 
 
JUAN PICO 233 
 
 loon, Mexican mustangs pawed the stones and 
 occasionally struck sparks with their hoofs. 
 On their backs were the big leather straps 
 that fell to the ground. From some of the 
 mustangs steam arose, and foam dropped from 
 their mouths. The place was filled almost to 
 suffocation, and a crowd of men and women 
 had collected in front of it. Some were peer 
 ing in at the windows; while others were 
 standing on boxes and kegs, looking over the 
 shoulders of their neighbors. Forming a 
 fringe along the edge of the crowd were 
 several poorly clad children. 
 
 Inside, there was an excited and applauding 
 crowd. Men with coal-black eyes and fea 
 tures bearing the brand-marks of dissipation, 
 jostled together. Women with hollow cheeks 
 laughed and jeered at one another. The large 
 oak tables had been pushed back against the 
 wall and on them men and women were 
 seated, the men smoking and laughing, the 
 women shrugging their shoulders as they 
 tipped their glasses together. Most of the 
 men had come in from the ranches, and their 
 clothes were dusty, their boots were heavy 
 
234 JUAN PICO 
 
 and their spurs clashed together. Some had 
 horse-hair lariats that looked like spotted 
 snakes coiled about their necks. The old 
 wooden statue of Saint Peter was wreathed 
 in a cloud of smoke ; on his brass halo hung a 
 wreath of paper laurel. No one looked at 
 him. Some of the women had pulled down 
 the festoons of dried fish that hung among the 
 rafters and were trying to eat them. Others 
 had put their arms around the necks of cow 
 boys, so tanned that they looked like Arabi 
 ans. Sailors with naked breasts on which the 
 Virgin's face was tattooed in indigo, smug 
 glers with lynx-like eyes were everywhere 
 among the crowd, and jammed in groups 
 along the walls. The place was full of mov 
 ing reptiles. 
 
 Juan Pico stood outside ; he heard now and 
 then, above the tide of voices, the notes of a 
 guitar. Some one was playing the introduc 
 tion to a Spanish fandango. The music 
 stopped and when they knew that some one 
 in the saloon was dancing, the crowd outside 
 pushed forward like the sea against a cliff. In 
 a moment there was a terrific crash and a half 
 
JUAN PICO 235 
 
 dozen men fell out through a window. Men 
 and women shouted and screamed, but when 
 it was discovered that no serious accident had 
 happened, they gradually stopped their out 
 cries. When the dance was finished the crowd 
 stamped their feet upon the floor, and ap 
 plauded wildly. The dance had to be re 
 peated. Suddenly everything within grew 
 still, and the clear silvery voice of a woman 
 filled the fetid air. 
 
 Juan threw up his hand to his head and 
 staggered back as if struck by a blow. For a 
 moment he stood like a man turned to stone. 
 His blood was as cold as ice and he scarcely 
 breathed. Again the crowd inside began to 
 cheer, and again the voice flowed through the 
 open door. The sound pierced him like the 
 thrust of a sword, and while others applauded, 
 he shouted : 
 
 " It is Anita ! Anita ! " 
 
 In the deafening noise his voice sounded 
 like a clanging bell. But no one listened. A 
 fury possessed him. His temples throbbed 
 as if each vein would burst. The crowd con 
 tinued to cheer. It stirred him to action. 
 
236 JUAN PICO 
 
 With the strength of a Hercules, he forced his 
 great shoulders through the mob, making the 
 crowd fall back like earth before the plow. 
 
 "It is Anita," he shouted, with staring 
 eyes. "Anita!" He rushed ahead. The 
 crowd closed in behind him. 
 
 " It is Anita ! " He looked like a madman. 
 Startled men and women jumped up from 
 their seats; some too frightened to move, 
 others trying with all their might to get to 
 ward the door. 
 
 Those outside grew more anxious to get in ; 
 they became uncontrollable, and like a pent-up 
 stream darted forward, forcing everything be 
 fore them. The pressure bore Juan along to 
 the side of Anita. As she fell fainting, he 
 caught her in his arms. Her cherished guitar 
 dropped to the floor and was broken to pieces. 
 Now, those within tried to escape like rats 
 through the small door and the windows. In 
 an uproar of cursing and screaming, tables 
 were overturned and lights extinguished. 
 
 Juan endeavored to protect Anita against 
 the crush ; he lifted her as far as possible above 
 the crowd. And supporting her on his breast 
 
JUAN PICO 237 
 
 and shoulder he carried her half -lifeless form 
 into the street. 
 
 In a few moments the abode of Madam 
 Gonfarone was deserted. She was distracted 
 and sat wailing in the street. Her husband 
 swung himself into a saddle and was soon out 
 of the town. 
 
 A crowd surrounded her, questioning and 
 alarmed. No one knew exactly what had 
 happened. At last madam got up on her feet 
 and approached her door, at every step loudly 
 bewailing her ill-fortune. Presently she raised 
 her hand, saying : 
 
 "What is that? Listen." 
 
 From the darkness within came the sound 
 of groans. Madam wrung her hands. It had 
 started to rain ; misty vapors filled the street. 
 Water trickled down the sides of the adobe 
 walls and the wind prowled here and there 
 like a hungry beast of prey. Madam had not 
 the courage to go inside. She begged two 
 Mexicans to go into the saloon for her. They 
 took down one of the gaudy, flaring lamps at 
 the door and slipping within, put the light on 
 the bar. Soon one of the men called out : 
 
238 JUAN PICO 
 
 " It's the old man, madam ; he's dead ! " 
 
 " Fetch him out, then. I'll pay you for your 
 trouble." 
 
 Many of the crowd still lingered. These 
 pressed forward and looked into the wrecked 
 bar-room. Near the bar, beneath the table at 
 which he had been sitting, lay Sebastian, the 
 man who in that very room had declared with 
 oaths : 
 
 " There is no God ! " 
 
 While Anita was singing and when the 
 crowd had first pushed into the saloon he had 
 fallen to the floor. There he had been caught 
 in the merciless tangle of the crowd that 
 surged back and forth, as they were thrown 
 first to one side then to the other, now shoved 
 forward, now pressed back. He lay pinned 
 to the floor blaspheming in agony, and a 
 thousand times treading and retreading feet 
 passed over him. 
 
 The Mexicans removed the heavy table 
 from his body. He lay in the lankness of 
 death, gashed and torn by spiked boots and 
 cutting spurs. The men callously dragged up 
 the trampled body from the filthy, pasty floor. 
 
JUAN PICO 239 
 
 The blood dripped in ugly splotches. His 
 head hung loosely from his broken neck. 
 
 At sight of the mangled mass those of his 
 kind, beneath whose feet he had died, fell 
 back from the door and slunk away. 
 
 Between ejaculations of horror, madam or 
 dered the men not to leave him on the steps, 
 but to put him in an alley some distance off. 
 Then the Mexicans mounted their horses and 
 galloped away. And madam hurried for 
 shelter to a quarter like her own. Sebastian 
 was alone in the darkness and in the driving 
 storm. His face was turned up to God. The 
 last of him was dead. For his soul had long 
 since perished beneath waves of recklessness 
 and sin. 
 
 A fierce joy coursed through Juan's veins. 
 The distance that he imagined to exist be 
 tween him and Anita was annihilated. He 
 had found her. She was in his arms saved 
 and safe. He was carrying her. At first he 
 had no further thought than that he was tak 
 ing her away from the place in which he had 
 found her. 
 The rain began to fall. He hurried on. He 
 
240 JUAN PICO 
 
 saw lights appearing in the windows of houses 
 along the way. Men and women inside were 
 throwing themselves upon their knees and 
 giving thanks for the rain. Outside in the 
 downpour, Juan uttered incoherently rude and 
 passionate thanksgivings. He called, " Anita, 
 Anita ! " as though beside himself with joy. 
 Anita's dripping hair came down. It clung 
 about his hand and arm. He stopped for a 
 moment under a tree. He repeated over and 
 over: 
 
 "Anita, my little Anita ! It is Juan." 
 
 She lay against his heart. Her silence, her 
 insensibility frightened him. He hastened on. 
 He did not know where to go. Should he 
 knock where a light was burning ? They 
 might not take them in. They might not be 
 able to help her. He walked on. Should he 
 take her to Father Jerome ? His housekeeper 
 was old and slow, and he was too far away. 
 
 " Anita, Anita, speak to me ! " 
 
 He thought of Sister Magdalen the good 
 friend of the Seiiora. A bar of light seemed 
 to direct him. He cried aloud. He shielded 
 Anita's face and head with his sombrero. 
 
JUAN PICO 241 
 
 Their garments were now heavy with water, 
 and he bent beneath the force of the rain. 
 Struggling, breathing painfully, his heart 
 nearly breaking with mingled joy and despair, 
 he came at last to the door of the convent. 
 
 It was a blurred mass in the darkness. 
 There was no light. He heard no sound ex 
 cept the dashing of the rain and the plunging 
 of streams from the spouts. He knocked 
 loudly at the heavy door, then knelt on one 
 knee the better to support his helpless burden. 
 He listened. There was no sound, no answer 
 ing glimmer of light. Anita was growing 
 cold. Desperate, brokenly calling upon the 
 saints and begging Anita to waken, he began 
 to pound with his hand clenched like a ball of 
 iron. 
 
 " Was no one coming ? " 
 
 He heard the empty halls echoing and re 
 echoing. 
 
 " Had no one heard him ? Must she die ? " 
 
 With redoubled force, he pounded, pounded, 
 pounded. 
 
SEVENTEEN 
 
 " I will not let thee go, 
 
 I hold thee by too many bands : 
 Thou sayest farewell, and, lo ! 
 
 I have thee by the hands, 
 And will not let thee go." 
 
 ROBERT BRIDGES. 
 
 THE rain, the welcome rain. How it swept 
 up from the sea and across the meadows, 
 bringing with it a sound as welcome as the 
 rustlings of angels's wings. It had started 
 noiselessly in the early evening of the day be 
 fore, here and there an occasional shower of 
 spurting drops had fallen in the dust. For a 
 time the storm ceased to threaten, then gath 
 ered again in heavy clouds. Wet gusty vapors 
 preceded the drops that increased in volume 
 and in numbers, sweeping across the window- 
 panes and pouring over the old tile roofs. Ac 
 companied by gales of wind, rain fell in tor 
 rents during the middle of the night. 
 
 However, morning found the flowers and 
 trees still eagerly devouring the drops that fell 
 242 
 
JUAN PICO 243 
 
 upon them. The water had washed the dust 
 from their leaves and now formed little pools 
 along the roadside and in the gardens. It 
 gushed musically from the occasionally over 
 flowing spouts and crept in at the window 
 sills. Through the warm trees it frequently 
 poured like shot from the mouths of cannon, 
 and then again it scarcely moved the leaves. 
 Everywhere the rain was rousing dormant life 
 into activity. The languid pulses of every 
 living thing began to throb with renewed 
 vigor. The buds opened, and the saps climbed 
 upward though the branches, even to the very 
 ends of the leaves. All day long the rain fell, 
 never for an instant completely ceasing. Be 
 hind the smiling white gray of the sky, the 
 sun was veiled like a bride. Newly formed 
 streams coursed along the roadside. Even the 
 river began to swell and to rush along with a 
 merry sound. Finally the whole country re 
 joiced to its utmost corners. It had grown 
 deliciously cool. A fine reviving perfume, 
 like that of the ambrosial wine of flowers was 
 everywhere. The air, the light, the water and 
 the clouds took on an overpowering splendor. 
 
244 JUAN PICO 
 
 In the convent of The Most Holy Name, 
 Anita tossed upon a narrow white bed in the 
 delirium of fever. Through the high arched 
 window of the cell the white light fell upon 
 her young, thin face and her unseeing eyes. 
 Outside in the same white light stood an old 
 cypress tree gnarled and twisted by its life of 
 pain. 
 
 Anita attempted to raise her head from the 
 pillows, asking in a frightened voice : " What 
 has happened ? " She tried to look about her ; 
 then she called one of the white-gowned nuns 
 to the bedside, whispering : " Is this heaven ? 
 Are you angels?" Before a reply could be 
 made she called loudly : " Juan ! Juan ! Come ! 
 Help ! Help ! " Then she wept and cried in 
 agony : " No, Juan is dead ! Juan is dead ! 
 He can never come to me again." When she 
 had ceased to sob she lay quiet for a few mo 
 ments ; suddenly she began to sing. She sang 
 with a curiously strong and vibrating voice, 
 whose notes hung upon her lips like dew on a 
 deep red rose. Again she lay quiet in a pallor 
 like that of death. Hours passed. A doctor 
 made frequent visits. Always nuns watched 
 
JUAN PICO 245 
 
 beside her, stroking her hair, bathing her tem 
 ples, giving her medicines or holding the rest 
 less hands in their cool soothing fingers. Ten 
 derly they rendered silent ministry to every 
 want they could discover. Near by, a nun on 
 her knees offered up continual prayer. Occa 
 sionally Anita's fever-tossed mind drifted back 
 to Otero ranch, and she would rehearse over 
 and over the details of that idyllic life. At 
 other times she shrieked, endeavored to escape 
 from the arms that held her, prayed wildly, or 
 clinging to the rosary about her neck, would 
 cry for help and for forgiveness. At such 
 times the nun who was on her knees would 
 pray aloud, and when Anita grew quieter 
 Sister Magdalen would sing to her. 
 
 Juan came and went throughout the day. 
 He had no sooner gone back to Father Jerome 
 than he started again for the convent. Pa 
 tiently the nun at the door answered his in 
 quiries. He was restless, heartbroken. He 
 was growing old. 
 
 Toward twilight the rain ceased and a daz 
 zling white light gleamed along the horizon. 
 It stretched further and further away, and the 
 
246 JUAN PICO 
 
 vast expanse of earth became more and more 
 measureless. The luminous void of the air 
 grew wider and gasped with a flickering 
 light. Kagged clouds slowly lifted, and far 
 off the sea looked white. In the great vault 
 of heaven the enormous rain clouds had 
 massed themselves in a curtain of black be 
 fore the infinite. The mountains concealed 
 themselves even to their snowy crests in 
 a veil of moving mists and vapors. In the 
 streets of the town thronged a joyous crowd 
 laughing and singing. Gentle breezes searched 
 their way through open windows and doors. 
 At last a vivifying burst of sunlight filled all 
 the luminous space with a golden glory, and 
 made royally red the magnificent upper cur 
 tain of the clouds. 
 
 As day declined, the freshness of the air, the 
 medicine, the loving attendance, all combined 
 to quiet Anita; though at one moment she 
 breathed with a labored painfulness, at the 
 next, her breathing could scarcely be per 
 ceived. With eyes half open, now and then, 
 she would raise her slender, delicate hands as 
 if trying to grasp a form that eluded her. 
 
JUAN PICO 247 
 
 When the sunlight fell across her breast she 
 opened her arms wide to receive it. 
 
 By and by, in the distant chapel, the nuns 
 were singing the evening service. Anita lifted 
 her heavy eyelids and tried to form the words, 
 but she was too weak. Sister Magdalen, sit 
 ting beside her, softly began to sing, softly and 
 more softly still ; at length Anita fell into a 
 light slumber. 
 
 The great cloud overhead had passed away, 
 and the clarity of the sky was like that of a 
 diamond drenched with water. In the trans 
 parent atmosphere, glittering stars came out 
 and twinkled, as if shaken on the ends of 
 staffs borne by an invisible guard of angels. 
 
 In the quiet cell a little light was burning. 
 Nuns watched beside her hour after hour; 
 when one rose another took her place. Anita 
 slept lightly, roused and slept again. At 
 length, to gain some rest, Sister Magdalen 
 left the bedside. Passing along the corridors 
 she saw Juan Pico again at the door. She 
 beckoned him to come in. She looked with 
 pity upon his sorrow-drawn face, as she 
 said: 
 
248 JUAN PICO 
 
 " Her sleep will refresh her. To-morrow, 
 she will probably know you." 
 
 " Is she better ? Do you think she is bet 
 ter?" 
 
 " If she were not so very weak " Sister 
 Magdalen hesitated, then she added : " I can 
 not say that I think she is better. But do 
 not be alarmed. If there should be any great 
 change I will send to Father Jerome's for 
 you." 
 
 " Thank you. I will go then." 
 
 " Yes," she replied, compassionately, " that 
 is better, for you should get some rest." Sis 
 ter Magdalen started to move away ; then she 
 returned, saying : " Senora Gintaris has proba 
 bly been delayed by some accident, but no 
 doubt she will come before morning. I shall 
 try and get a little sleep, so as to be able to 
 meet her when she arrives. I hope she will 
 be here when Anita wakens. Good-night, 
 Seiior Pico." 
 
 " Good-night." 
 
 Yery late that night a carriage rolled through 
 the streets of Los Angeles and stopped before 
 the barred door of the convent. At the instant 
 
JUAN PICO 249 
 
 the horses halted a dark figure left the car 
 riage. The door was opened silently before 
 her and Senora Gintaris was led directly to 
 Sister Magdalen. Trembling and unable to 
 speak she sank into the arms of the pale nun 
 who kissed her on both cheeks, saying : 
 
 " My dear Olga ; we have done everything, 
 given her every care. But so far she would 
 not have known you. Now she is sleeping." 
 
 " I must see her, let me see her," demanded 
 and at the same time entreated the Senora. 
 
 " Yes, Olga, for a moment, if you will keep 
 perfectly still and not waken her." 
 
 In the faint light of the lamp the thinness 
 and fragility of the sleeping girl were not 
 fully apparent to the Senora. Nevertheless 
 she was cruelly shocked, and tears ran down 
 her own changed face. Anita became rest 
 less under the devouring gaze, and Sister Mag 
 dalen drew the Senora away. Finally she 
 persuaded her to accept some refreshment and 
 to go to bed. 
 
 "But I know so little," she expostulated; 
 " your letter was short and I did not question 
 the messenger." 
 
250 JUAN PICO 
 
 "You know the worst and the best, Olga. 
 But do not seek to know more to-night. If 
 Anita is conscious to-morrow, you must be able 
 to be with her and to preserve your own calm 
 ness. All that I know, I will tell you later 
 on." And soon they parted for the night. 
 
 Under the wonderful sky, under the bril 
 liant sun, the convent preserved the hush of its 
 cloistered life. It was morning of the second 
 day since Anita had been found. Sister Mag 
 dalen saw her slowly waken to consciousness. 
 For some time Anita lay quietly looking to 
 ward the window, then she began to turn her 
 eyes from object to object as though half- 
 conscious of an unf amiliarity ; Sister Magdalen 
 rose and gave her a little wine, saying gently : 
 
 " Good-morning, Anita." 
 
 Anita responded faintly. In a short time 
 the physician came in and noted her pulse and 
 her breathing. He made no inquiries, but left 
 medicines. Sister Magdalen went with him to 
 the door. He said briefly : 
 
 " The medicines are merely to keep up her 
 strength." 
 
 " How is she, doctor ? " 
 
JUAN PICO 251 
 
 " She is very weak there is no power of re 
 sistance left." 
 
 " Then it will soon be over ? " 
 
 " Yes, you should send for the priest." 
 
 " Has she strength enough to see any one be 
 fore that?" 
 
 " I think you would better let her see the 
 priest first. She may pass away at any mo 
 ment. She may live an hour or two, not 
 longer." 
 
 Sister Magdalen returned to the bedside ; the 
 sight of her sweet face pleased Anita, who was 
 gradually realizing her surroundings. Look 
 ing serenely at her, Sister Magdalen took her 
 hand, saying : 
 
 "Anita, do you wish anything? Is there 
 any one you would like to see ? " 
 
 Suddenly Anita's pale, thin face flushed : 
 
 " Madre mi," she cried, and then, " No, it is 
 no use, she would not come I shall" she 
 stopped. 
 
 Sister Magdalen saw in the doorway the 
 eager, imploring face of Senora Gintaris. The 
 sister raised a warning finger. 
 
 " Wait," she commanded softly, and then she, 
 
252 JUAN PICO 
 
 said to the dying girl : " Listen, Anita, I am 
 Sister Magdalen, an old friend of the Senora." 
 
 Anita tried feebly to lift the nun's hand to 
 her lips, but the attempt was too great for 
 her. 
 
 Sister Magdalen stroked Anita's hair 
 gently : " You are safe in the convent of The 
 Most Holy Name. You have been very ill. 
 We have sent for the Senora." 
 
 Anita uttered a sharp exclamation. 
 
 " Yes, we have sent for her," continued the 
 nun, " and she is coming." 
 
 With effort, Anita gasped : " She does not 
 know You do not know O, save me, Sister 
 Magdalen." 
 
 " My poor lamb," said the sister, putting her 
 face close beside Anita's, "the Senora loves 
 you. We love you. Christ and the Holy 
 Virgin love you, and pity you." 
 
 "Pray for me," sobbed Anita. The nun 
 soothed her and prayed for her. After that 
 she lay still for some time. Sister Magdalen 
 left the room for a moment. Anita instantly 
 missed her. Upon her return she looked up at 
 the nun and said almost imploringly : 
 
JUAN PICO 253 
 
 " If madre mi is coming, I hope she will 
 
 come soon." 
 
 "Yes, it will be soon. Now, the Father 
 Confessor is here." 
 
 Anita looked up, her eyes burned with a 
 light reflected from eternity. 
 
 " Thank you, I am ready." 
 
 Presently Father Jerome stood beside the 
 fading girl. His compassionate face and gentle 
 voice gave her spirit strength and courage. 
 And she laid bare her heart to him. 
 
 After confession and absolution, prepara 
 tions were made for administering extreme 
 unction. In a few moments, prayers for the 
 dying had been said and she was anointed 
 with the holy oil. At last, comfort was 
 brought to her longing soul. When the first 
 exhaustion had worn away, she seemed to 
 grow stronger. For some time she lay with 
 her eyes closed. Suddenly she opened them, 
 and met the loving gaze of the Senora. 
 
 At first Anita could not speak; then she 
 cried appealingly : 
 
 "Madre mi, madre mi! O, forgive me, 
 madre mi." 
 
254 JUAN PICO 
 
 " I forgive you," said the Senora excitedly. 
 " O, my little one, you must forgive me." She 
 held Anita in her arms close to her heart. 
 But after that first outcry she preserved an 
 outward calm. She touched Anita tenderly, 
 she gazed at her lovingly, she kissed her. 
 After a time she repeated softly : 
 
 " You will forgive me, Anita ? " 
 
 Anita wondered at her. 
 
 " Won't you forgive me, Anita ? Say you 
 forgive me ? " 
 
 " I forgive you," replied Anita, but looked 
 at her without comprehending. 
 
 The Senora held her closer. A moment 
 later she drew something from her bosom, 
 saying : 
 
 u See, Anita, here is your rosary." 
 
 Anita smiled. The Senora gently removed 
 the black rosary and placed the golden one 
 once more about her slender neck. But 
 Anita's happy moments were fleeing rapidly. 
 She was very weak. Finally Sister Magdalen 
 said: 
 
 " She is tired, Olga ; shall we not put her 
 back upon the pillows ? " 
 
JUAN PICO 255 
 
 They laid her down. But the Senora did 
 not loose her hand. Anita asked no ques 
 tions ; she was contentedly looking at madre 
 mi. By and by, she said softly : 
 
 " Tell me about home, madre mi. Who 
 feeds the linnets and the peacocks ? " 
 
 " Dolores feeds them now, Anita, but they 
 are waiting for you to come back." Anita 
 gently shook her head. 
 
 With wonderful composure the Senora con 
 tinued : 
 
 " And every day she waters the flowers for 
 you. The azaleas and the geraniums. Do you 
 remember how they used to grow along the 
 veranda?" Anita slightly moved her head. 
 "Well, they're growing there just the same. 
 And now they're all in blossom. The camellias 
 are beautiful this year. I gather them every 
 day for the Yirgin." 
 
 Anita's strength was failing, and the Senora 
 spoke more rapidly : 
 
 "Marie waits on those who are sick, and 
 Leo takes care of your little pony ; every day 
 I feed her an apple as you used to do. She 
 always turns her pretty head and whinnies. 
 
256 JUAN PICO 
 
 She whinnies for you, Anita ; she does not for 
 get you. We have a new olive press. And 
 Leo's little boy is learning to count the sheep 
 and"- 
 
 Anita's disengaged hand was clasping the 
 ivory crucifix. The Senora paused and touched 
 it, saying : 
 
 " I found it on the road, Anita, when I was 
 looking for you." 
 
 " Did you look for me, madre mi ? " 
 "I looked everywhere, my child. Oh, if 
 we had only known where to go ! Juan Pico 
 searched for you, too, Anita, more than any 
 one else." 
 
 " Juan ! Juan ! Sebastian told me he was 
 dead ! " 
 
 " No, Anita. He found you ; he was the one 
 who brought you here." 
 
 " Juan is not dead ? O, madre mi ! " 
 "My child, he is here, close beside you." 
 Juan had been waiting at the head of the 
 cot just out of her sight ; now he came close to 
 her and knelt beside her pillow. He trembled 
 with suppressed sobs and his eyes looked as 
 though they had burned up their tears. For 
 
JUAN PICO 257 
 
 a moment she looked into his tremulous face, 
 then she said : 
 
 " Juan, it is you when I saw you in that 
 dreadful place I thought you were an angel 
 from heaven." She moved the hand holding 
 the crucifix toward him, and Juan took her 
 hand and the divine emblem in his strong 
 clasp. 
 
 " O, Anita ! Anita ! " He bowed his head 
 over the little hand. 
 
 The Senora was no longer able to control 
 herself and was weeping aloud. Sister Mag 
 dalen put her arm about her and led her from 
 the room. 
 
 Calmly Anita watched them go, then her 
 tender violet eyes met Juan's in a long, long 
 look. He checked his sobs. 
 
 "Juan, I went away because I wanted to 
 find you. They told me you were not coming 
 back to Otero ranch I wanted to see Los 
 Angeles I thought you would be glad to see 
 me." 
 
 "I would have been glad, Anita, so 
 glad." 
 
 " Then you went down to San Diego, and 
 
258 JUAN PICO 
 
 we went there to find you. When we had 
 been there a few days, Sebastian told me you 
 were dead." 
 
 Juan shuddered, shaking the little bed. 
 
 " Do not weep, Juan ; God is very good to 
 me." 
 
 Juan said quickly : " No. He has not been 
 good to you, Anita." 
 
 " Yes, Juan, for I ought never to have gone 
 away." Her lips moved soundlessly. At last 
 she said aloud : " I did wrong to go away, and 
 besides I didn't know about anything away 
 from the ranch. I ought to have waited ; 
 madre mi would have taken me sometime. 
 And you would have come back again, 
 wouldn't you, Juan ? " 
 
 "I don't know, but anything would have 
 been better than this." 
 
 "No, Juan, do not say that. It has been 
 dreadful dreadful for me. I have prayed to 
 die, I have prayed for forgiveness. If you 
 had not found me, I might have died unfor- 
 given. Oh, thank the Holy Virgin, thank 
 God that you found me." 
 
 The dying girl looked at him with implor- 
 
JUAN PICO 259 
 
 ing, loving pity, " And by and by when I am 
 gone pray for me always." 
 
 He buried his face in the pillows beside her. 
 
 "I will, Anita, I will." 
 
 There was a long silence. Every moment 
 Anita's hold on life was loosening. Again 
 she spoke : 
 
 " Juan ? Juan ? do you hear me, Juan ? " 
 
 "Yes, every word." 
 
 " When I went away from madre mi, I was 
 a little girl ; now, Juan, I am a woman. Look 
 at me, Juan, I love you, I love you best on 
 earth. I am glad you found me. Remember 
 that always." 
 
 " Anita, Anita, you must not die ! " he cried 
 passionately. 
 
 " O, Juan, I am glad to die. If I lived I 
 could never be your wife. If you could know 
 everything, you would understand that it is 
 best for me to die. I never thought that I 
 should be happy again, and I am happy now. 
 The saints and the Virgin have interceded for 
 me. Madre mi has forgiven me ; I see you be 
 fore I die." 
 
 He could not reply ; looking up into his hag- 
 
260 JUAN PICO 
 
 gard countenance, she continued to speak 
 softly to him : 
 
 " I am going where there is no sin and no 
 sorrow. You and madre mi will come to me 
 there." 
 
 While she was speaking the Seiiora and Sister 
 Magdalen returned. And her loving eyes 
 were shining upon them out of the shadow of 
 death. Sister Magdalen was praying. The 
 Senora again knelt beside Anita. It was very 
 quiet in the little room. The narrow case 
 ment of the window framed a patch of vivid 
 living blue. Throughout the compass of the 
 heaven, life and light poured from the sun. 
 Its direct lance-like beams were falling every 
 where outside, and leaves and blossoms rustled 
 soothingly in the wind. In the convent gar 
 den a thrush broke forth into a burst of happy 
 song, then dropped note by note into silence. 
 In the silence they heard Anita's voice faint 
 and sweet : 
 
 " I shall watch for you Juan, and for you 
 dear madre mi." 
 
 She spoke no more, but looked with calm 
 ness on them both. That loved name madre 
 
JUAN PICO 261 
 
 mi, was last upon her lips. Her last earthly 
 look was Juan's. Then she smiled as though 
 to some heavenly visitant. And thus she left 
 them. 
 
 The great white ship had anchored in the 
 bay and she had gone aboard. Noiselessly 
 the anchor had been hauled up and the won 
 derful vessel was sailing on over the crystal 
 sea, on toward the great white throne. 
 
EIGHTEEN 
 
 " Banish the viewless friend 
 Whose horrid presence men have 
 Named, ' Despair ' : 
 Let all thy efforts tend 
 Through life to some great, some noble end, 
 And life itself will soon a nobler aspect wear." 
 
 RUBLES. 
 
 "KEQUIESCAT in pace." These words rang 
 continuously in Juan's ears. Still he heard the 
 voice of Father Jerome. Still he saw the 
 candles at her head and feet. And amid the 
 profusion of flowers he saw her calm, pale 
 face. 
 
 " O, God ! " Juan stretched his arms above 
 the flower-heaped mound. He rose to his feet. 
 All night he had listened to the wind and the 
 rain, and had knelt in thought beside Anita's 
 grave. And he had come to her in the first, 
 faint light of morning. The rain had stopped, 
 the clouds had broken away and the sun was 
 shining. Birds flew joyously from tree to 
 tree singing matins of praise and thanksgiving. 
 
JUAN PICO 263 
 
 In the old cemetery the stones, emblematic of 
 human mortality, were everywhere crowded 
 upon, and almost overborne by the vigorous 
 and profuse life of spring. The lately parched 
 shrubs, trees, the earth itself attested in them 
 selves the miracle of the resurrection. 
 
 Juan raised his eyes to the hills. There 
 great flocks of sheep gambolled and frisked. 
 Mists clung to the mountains and slowly 
 rolled up along their sides. Presently they 
 vanished in the higher, purer atmosphere above 
 the cirrus clouds. 
 
 Clad in her emerald robes, once more, spring 
 breathed balmy refreshment. As if by magic, 
 the landscape had been transformed. Already 
 the oleanders were magnificently pink and be 
 ginning to bloom in profusion. Cacti buds, 
 some of them hard as nuts the day before, 
 were now open and their silky tassels hung in 
 cups of gold. The resting tide of life had 
 everywhere broken into a foam of flowers and 
 had buried the earth in a sea of petals. So 
 stainless and perfect a loveliness was a revela 
 tion of nature's plenitude and power. From 
 the soil came fragrant odors. Nature's holi- 
 
264 JUAN PICO 
 
 day, the high festival of spring had come, and 
 the velvety grass rose up from the earth spon 
 taneously. 
 
 Juan looked at the flowers she had loved, 
 the delicate pink fox-gloves that shoot up 
 among the grasses in the fields like crocuses in 
 the snow. On all the trees blossoms would 
 soon be blowing free and fresh. The pome 
 granates would bloom year after year, but she 
 he groaned. 
 
 He left the cemetery and started toward the 
 city. Passing a pool he noticed that the iris 
 were making ready to wave their spotless ban 
 ners in the sun. He turned away ; he could 
 not look into the Eyes of Heaven, remem 
 bering that she would no longer wear them. 
 Over on the mountain-side near the edge of 
 the timber line, he saw the pin on and blue 
 gum trees hanging from the rocks as if 
 suspended by their roots. His life like theirs, 
 must henceforth be hard and arid. What had 
 he done that all happiness should be forever 
 taken from him? The ground on which he 
 walked seemed to lift him as high and bare 
 from human comfort as were the trees upon 
 
JUAN PICO 265 
 
 those craggy rocks. Was there a God ? Was 
 He a good God ? Why had He singled him 
 out of all the world to suffer so terrible a 
 grief? 
 
 As he passed along he saw that the roads 
 and lanes among the ranches were dotted here 
 and there with groups of laborers. He heard 
 girls singing, and now and then the deeper 
 vibration of men's voices replying in some 
 musical antistrophe. He heard shouts and 
 laughter. How could any one laugh ? From 
 time to time he met fishermen hastening to 
 the seaside, their nets tangled about their 
 shoulders or dangling behind them. 
 
 Like a silver thread among the hills he saw 
 the narrow, sparkling Los Angeles river, com 
 ing from the distant border-land of melting 
 snow, crowned by the white mountain crests. 
 In every direction the landscape was superbly 
 beautiful. .tafreaorr WHAHY 
 
 Coming toward him, Juan noticed a car 
 riage. As it drew nearer he recognized the 
 horses, then the driver. Inside the carriage 
 sat Senora Gintaris heavily veiled. She told 
 Pedro to stop. She put back her veil and 
 
266 JUAN PICO 
 
 held out her hand to Juan. For a moment 
 neither of them spoke. Then the Senora 
 asked in a voice strangely altered from her 
 formerly imperious tones : 
 
 " You have been ? " 
 
 " Yes, Senora, I have been with her." 
 
 " I am going there now. Then I return to 
 Otero ranch." She sighed deeply. " It is not 
 the old Otero ranch, it can never be that 
 again. How I have missed Anita. How I 
 shall miss her all my life ! " 
 
 The proud Senora was weeping. Silvery 
 bands showed in her dark hair. Juan's face 
 convulsed ; he pitied her, he pitied hfmself , as 
 though the grief was not his own. It was a 
 transient approach to calmness ; just then he 
 could suffer no more in his own person. The 
 Senora said : 
 
 " I am growing old, I shall not take this 
 journey many times. But you will, I hope, 
 come to see me at Otero ranch." 
 
 " I will come, Senora." 
 
 "Juan, for the sake of Anita, forgive my 
 harsh judgment of you my harsh treat 
 ment." 
 
JUAN PICO 267 
 
 He did not reply, and she added, " I did not 
 trust you " 
 
 " I do not blame you ; if I had not been a 
 gambler all this might never have happened." 
 
 " Perhaps, but I was selfish very selfish in 
 my love for Anita. I wished to keep her al 
 ways with me. To have her always happy, 
 always singing, always a child. That was not 
 possible. If I had taught her more of the 
 ways of the world, and considered her wishes 
 more she asked for so little if I had con 
 sidered her wishes at least equally with my 
 wishes for my own selfish happiness, I am 
 sure the first fatal step would never have been 
 taken, I am sure that she would be with us 
 now." The Senora broke completely down. 
 Juan said thoughtfully : 
 
 " If you are to blame, all the saints know 
 that I forgive you ; I " he stopped, then said 
 with vehemence, " I was not fit for Anita." 
 
 " You had not shown what was in you," she 
 replied, with a deep, tremulous earnestness. 
 " I feel that you are almost my son. I trust 
 you now. Good-bye, Juan." 
 
 " Thank you, Senora. Good-bye." 
 
268 JUAN PICO 
 
 Juan watched the carriage until it was 
 nearly out of sight, then proceeded on his 
 way. A garment of majesty invested the 
 meadow-land at his feet. And the brilliancy 
 of the sky and of the sun filled him with in 
 describable awe. It was Sunday and off in 
 the distance he could hear the chimes from 
 the cathedral. He felt utterly hopeless. He 
 did not want to live ; he was afraid to die. 
 Anita would wait for him in heaven. Could 
 he ever hope to enter there ? 
 
 As he was nearing the town he met an old 
 woman bending beneath a heavy bundle tied 
 upon her shoulders. She was mumbling to 
 herself in a distressed croaking voice. Her 
 appearance was so repulsive that he instinc 
 tively looked aside, not however before he 
 had seen a big ulcer in the corner of her 
 mouth over which she held one distorted 
 hand, the other lifted her skirts from before 
 her feet. A little further along he came upon 
 an old adobe house. The recent storm had 
 made a wreck of it, part of the old red roof 
 had caved in and a side wall had crumbled 
 outward. From appearances it had been re- 
 
JUAN PICO 269 
 
 cently occupied and the occupants had been 
 obliged to make a hasty exit. The old yucca 
 plants gazed inquiringly at him over the wall 
 behind which the old house seemed to skulk. 
 He felt a dumb sympathy with the uncon 
 scious ruin. 
 
 Entering Los Angeles, he met little children 
 dressed in white on their way from church. 
 It was Advent Sunday and they carried long 
 white tapers in their hands and wore wreaths 
 of lilies. Following them were sisters of 
 mercy in blue gowns and strange white bon 
 nets. The service of the mass was over; 
 Father Jerome had left the sacristy and was 
 sitting in the study when Juan came in after 
 him, without knocking or salutation of any 
 kind. Father Jerome rose, greeting him with 
 warm affection. Juan's heart opened to his 
 touch and look of sympathy. He exclaimed : 
 
 " Father, I cannot live. Teach me to die ! " 
 
 " My son, put such sin away from you ; you 
 must live until it is God's will to take you." 
 
 " Oh, you do not know " 
 
 " Ah ! but I do know. And when I was 
 ready to receive it, God gave me His com- 
 
270 JUAN PICO 
 
 panionship ; and in it I have found a peace 
 and joy that no human companionship can 
 ever give." His clear eyes met Juan's. "You 
 think, now, that you cannot know a life of 
 happiness, but you will learn, as we all must 
 learn, that no love that stands before His, can 
 bring enduring happiness. 
 
 Juan looked up fiercely : " You say God is 
 good?" 
 
 " Yes, my son, God is good." 
 
 " If He is good, why has He always made 
 me suffer ? " He sprang to his feet ; he walked 
 about the room. " But worst of all, He has 
 made Anita suffer! What had she done? 
 That little happy girl. She never had a 
 wicked thought." He stopped before Father 
 Jerome, demanding : " Is that good ? Would 
 I make you suffer so ? No. And I don't be 
 lieve God is good." 
 
 " Juan, you blaspheme ! God forgive you. 
 God comfort you." 
 
 Juan started to leave the room, but the 
 priest detained him, and as he walked with 
 him to and fro, he silently prayed for the 
 sorrow-stricken, rebellious man. When Juan 
 
JUAN PICO 271 
 
 at last turned appealingly to him, Father Je 
 rome said : 
 
 " Jesus Christ died for you and for me and 
 for Anita. If He lay down His life because 
 of His great love for us, He, who was with 
 out sin, ought we not to trust to His love, to 
 His goodness ? " 
 
 Juan made no reply ; he sank exhausted into 
 a chair. Father Jerome placed his hands upon 
 Juan's shoulders : 
 
 " Stay with me, at least for a time, my son. 
 Give yourself and your services to God. You 
 can do this wherever you may go, but at first, 
 let me guide you. Henceforth devote your 
 life to doing good. Nothing else will bring 
 peace to your soul." 
 
 ****** 
 
 Years after, a famous friar came up from the 
 Spanish speaking countries of South and Central 
 America to preach at mission services through 
 out California. The records show that many 
 were joined to the church, and that wherever 
 he went there was a lasting spiritual uplifting 
 of the people. 
 
 As he stood in the pulpit, tall and erect, he 
 
272 JUAN PICO 
 
 was a magnificent figure. Every line of his 
 attenuated yet muscular shoulders, of his long 
 arms and of his large, powerful hands, told of 
 a strong earthly nature trained and conse 
 crated to the work of doing good. 
 
 He spoke to the people out of the depths of 
 his heart. He gave them the message that he 
 himself had received. He made them sick of 
 their sins. He lifted them up as if in his 
 arms. 
 
 Juan Pico has influenced those who have 
 listened to him more powerfully than most 
 preachers are able to do. And in the arduous 
 duties of his calling he has found peace.