Yet anything more than a passing interest in pretty Lolita never entered the lad’s mind, and when he finally returned to his own home it was with no regret, though up to the last he could not resist making pretty speeches for the sake of the drooping lids and the sudden smile. Therefore it was no great disappointment to him when, upon reaching the Rosses’ rancho, he found that Christine and Alison had departed. Without inquiring into his motive he turned his horse towards Pedro’s cabin; it was silent and deserted. In the fields beyond he saw Pedro with the negro hands John had lately employed. Blythe looked up and down at the closed door, at the window, half open, in which stood a pot of flowers. “Lolita,” he called softly, hoping to see the lovely face appear at door or window. But the silence continued. The whir of insects in the grass, the note of a bird, the laugh of one of the negroes working in the corn-field, alone broke the stillness. The young man turned himself towards the flowery stretch of prairie, his eyes seeking for some moving object. Was it the flowers stirred by the wind or did he see afar off some one stooping then rising? He let his horse fall into a walk and followed the road till he came abreast of the bending figure. Then he perceived a dark head against the background of mottled red and pink and purple. A figure in the loose white costume worn by the Mexican women was moving towards the small bayou where the magnolia-trees were at the last of their bloom, sending forth a delicate odor from their large white blossoms. Lolita was making her way towards one tree in particular; her hands were already full of flowers, but these she laid down on a stone near by. Blythe alighted from his horse and tethered him, then started on foot to the spot where the girl was standing on tiptoe reaching up for the white blooms. The simple garment she wore, low-necked and sleeveless, did not disguise the roundness of her arms, nor the graceful turn of her throat as she clasped the bough overhead to bring it within her grasp. “Lolita!” called Blythe. She turned with a start, still holding the bough. Her face broke into a smile as she saw who it was. “Señor!” she exclaimed. Then the bough flew up from her hand and she came forward. “You look like a magnolia yourself,” said Blythe. “Now I know what it is you have always reminded me of, Lolita; you are like a magnolia.” The eyes drooped and a smile parted the girl’s lips. “You always say me very pretty thing,” she murmured. “Sit down here and tell me what you have been doing to-day,” Blythe went on. The girl hesitated. “You have seen Aleeson?” she asked. “No, I must have missed them.” He involuntarily used the plural. “They had gone when I reached the house. It is warm; I want my horse to rest a little before I go back. Sit down and tell me what you have been doing. Making tortillas, of course, and what else? Have you read from the book I brought you?”