“Let me hear no more of that nonsense,” continued her mother.  “A strange remark, truly, to come from the lips of a Californian!  Thy father has said that his daughters shall marry men of his race—­men who belong to that island of the North; and I have agreed, and thy sisters are well married.  No women are more virtuous, more industrious, more religious, than ours; but our men—­our young men—­are a set of drinking gambling vagabonds.  Go to thy room and pray there until supper.”

Elena ran out of an opposite door, and Dona Jacoba sat down on a high-backed chair and held out her hand for the wedding-gown.  She examined it, then smiled brilliantly.

“The lace is beautiful,” she said.  “There is no richer in California, and I have seen Dona Trinidad Iturbi y Moncada’s and Dona Modeste Castro’s.  Let me see thy mantilla once more.”

Francisca opened a chest nearly as large as her bed, and shook out a long square of superb Spanish lace.  It had arrived from the city of Mexico but a few days before.  The girls clapped their admiring hands, as if they had not looked at it twenty times, and Dona Jacoba smoothed it tenderly with her strong hands.  Then she went over to the chest and lifted the beautiful silk and crepe gowns, one by one, her sharp eyes detecting no flaw.  She opened another chest and examined the piles of underclothing and bed linen, all of finest woof, and deeply bordered with the drawn work of Spain.

“All is well,” she said, returning to her chair.  “I see nothing more to be done.  Thy brother will bring the emeralds, and the English plate will come before the week is over.”

“Is it sure that Santiago will come in time for the wedding?” asked a half-English granddaughter, whose voice broke suddenly at her own temerity.

But Dona Jacoba was in a gracious mood.

“Surely.  Has not Don Roberto gone to meet him?  He will be here at four to-day.”

“How glad I shall be to see him!” said Francisca.  “Just think, my friends, I have not seen him for seven years.  Not since he was eleven years old.  He has been on that cold dreadful island in the North all this time.  I wonder has he changed!”

“Why should he change?” asked Dona Jacoba.  “Is he not a Cortez and a Duncan?  Is he not a Californian and a Catholic?  Can a few years in an English school make him of another race?  He is seven years older, that is all.”

“True,” assented Francisca, threading her needle; “of course he could not change.”

Dona Jacoba opened a large fan and wielded it with slow curves of her strong wrist.  She had never been cold in her life, and even a June day oppressed her.

“We have another guest,” she said in a moment—­“a young man, Don Dario Castanares of Los Robles Rancho.  He comes to buy cattle of my husband, and must remain with us until the bargain is over.”

Several of the girls raised their large black eyes with interest.  “Don Dario Castanares,” said one; “I have heard of him.  He is very rich and very handsome, they say.”