on unfrequented roads.  On Sundays she sometimes drove to the half-ruined mission church of Santa Inez, and hid herself, during mass, in the dim monastic shadows of the choir.  Gradually the poorer people whom she met in these journeys began to show an almost devotional reverence for her, stopping in the roads with uncovered heads for her to pass, or making way for her in the tienda or plaza of the wretched town with dumb courtesy.  She began to feel a strange sense of widowhood, that, while it at times brought tears to her eyes, was, not without a certain tender solace.  In the sympathy and simpleness of this impulse she went as far as to revive the mourning she had worn for her parents, but with such a fatal accenting of her beauty, and dangerous misinterpreting of her condition to eligible bachelors strange to the country, that she was obliged to put it off again.  Her reserve and dignified manner caused others to mistake her nationality for that of the Santierras, and in “Dona Bella” the simple Mrs. Tucker was for a while forgotten.  At times she even forgot it herself.  Accustomed now almost entirely to the accents of another language and the features of another race, she would sit for hours in the corridor, whose massive bronzed inclosure even her tasteful care could only make an embowered mausoleum of the Past, or gaze abstractedly from the dark embrasures of her windows across the stretching almarjal to the shining lagoon beyond that terminated the estuary.  She had a strange fondness for this tranquil mirror, which under sun or stars always retained the passive reflex of the sky above, and seemed to rest her weary eyes.  She had objected to one of the plans projected by Poindexter to redeem the land and deepen the water at the embarcadero, as it would have drained the lagoon, and the lawyer had postponed the improvement to gratify her fancy.  So she kept it through the long summer unchanged save by the shadows of passing wings or the lazy files of sleeping sea-fowl.

On one of these afternoons she noticed a slowly moving carriage leave the high road and cross the almarjal skirting the edge of the lagoon.  If it contained visitors for Los Cuervos they had evidently taken a shorter cut without waiting to go on to the regular road which intersected the highway at right angles a mile farther on.  It was with some sense of annoyance and irritation that she watched the trespass, and finally saw the vehicle approach the house.  A few moments later the servant informed her that Mr. Patterson would like to see her alone.  When she entered the corridor, which in the dry season served as a reception hall, she was surprised to see that Patterson was not alone.  Near him stood a well-dressed handsome woman, gazing about her with good-humored admiration of Mrs. Tucker’s taste and ingenuity.

“It don’t look much like it did two years ago,” said the stranger cheerfully.  “You’ve improved it wonderfully.”

Stiffening slightly, Mrs. Tucker turned inquiringly to Mr. Patterson.  But that gentleman’s usual profound melancholy appeared to be intensified by the hilarity of his companion.  He only sighed deeply and rubbed his leg with the brim of his hat in gloomy abstraction.