“From Don Pablo Ignestria, my baby,” she said.  “Oh, what a man! what a caballero!  And so smart.  He waited an hour by the creek in the mission gardens until he saw thy mother go out, and then he brought the note to me.  He begged to see thee, but I dared not grant that, ninita, for thy mother will be back in ten minutes.”

“Go downstairs and keep my mother there,” commanded Eulogia, and Aunt Anastacia rolled off, whilst her niece with unwonted nervousness opened the letter.

“Sweet of my soul!  Day-star of my life!  I dare not speak to thee of love because, strong man as I am, still am I a coward before those mocking eyes.  Therefore if thou laugh the first time thou readest that I love thee, I shall not see it, and the second time thou mayest be more kind.  Beautiful and idolized Eulogia, men have loved thee, but never will be cast at thy little feet a heart stronger or truer than mine.  Ay, dueno adorada, I love thee!  Without hope?  No!  I believe that thou lovest me, thou cold little one, although thou dost not like to think that the heart thou hast sealed can open to let love in.  But, Eulogia!  Star of my eyes!  I love thee so I will break that heart in pieces, and give thee another so soft and warm that it will beat all through the old house to which I will take thee.  For thou wilt come to me, thou little coquette?  Thou wilt write to me to come back and stand with thee in the mission while the good padre asks the saints to bless us?  Eulogia, thou hast sworn thou wilt write to no man, but thou wilt write to me, my little one.  Thou wilt not break the heart that lives in thine.

“I kiss thy little feet.  I kiss thy tiny hands.  I kiss—­ay, Eulogia!  Adios!  Adios!

“PABLO.”

Eulogia could not resist that letter.  Her scruples vanished, and, after an entire day of agonized composition, she sent these lines:—­

“You can come back to San Luis Obispo.

“EULOGIA AMATA FRANCISCA GUADALUPE CARILLO.”

VI

Another year had passed.  No answer had come from Pablo Ignestria.  Nor had he returned to San Luis Obispo.  Two months after Eulogia had sent her letter, she received one from Graciosa La Cruz, containing the information that Ignestria had married the invalid girl whose love for him had been the talk of Monterey for many years.  And Eulogia?  Her flirtations had earned her far and wide the title of Dona Coquetta, and she was cooler, calmer, and more audacious than ever.

“Dost thou never intend to marry?” demanded Dona Pomposa one day, as she stood over the kitchen stove stirring red peppers into a saucepan full of lard.

Eulogia was sitting on the table swinging her small feet.  “Why do you wish me to marry?  I am well enough as I am.  Was Elena Castanares so happy with the man who was mad for her that I should hasten to be a neglected wife?  Poor my Elena!  Four years, and then consumption and death.  Three children and an indifferent husband, who was dying of love when he could not get her.”