It was here that Mrs. Randolph, late relict of the late Scipion L'Hommadieu, devoted herself to bringing up her children after the extremest of French methods, and in resurrecting a “de” from her own family to give a distinct and aristocratic character to their name. The “de Fontanges l'Hommadieu” were, however, only known to their neighbors, after the Western fashion, by their stepfather's name,--when they were known at all--which was seldom. For the boy was unpleasantly conceited as a precocious worldling, and the girl as unpleasantly complacent in her role of ingenue. The household was completely dominated by Mrs. Randolph. A punctilious Catholic, she attended all the functions of the adjacent mission, and the shadow of a black soutane at twilight gliding through the wild oat-fields behind the ranch had often been mistaken for a coyote. The peace-loving major did not object to a piety which, while it left his own conscience free, imparted a respectable religious air to his household, and kept him from the equally distasteful approaches of the Puritanism of his neighbors, and was blissfully unconscious that he was strengthening the antagonistic foreign element in his family with an alien church. Meantime, as the repaired buggy was slowly making its way towards his house, Major Randolph entered his wife's boudoir with a letter which the San Francisco post had just brought him. A look of embarrassment on his good-humored face strengthened the hard lines of hers; she felt some momentary weakness of her natural enemy, and prepared to give battle. “I'm afraid here's something of a muddle, Josephine,” he began with a deprecating smile. “Mallory, who was coming down here with his daughter, you know”-- “This is the first intimation I have had that anything has been settled upon,” interrupted the lady, with appalling deliberation. “However, my dear, you know I told you last week that he thought of bringing her here while he went South on business. You know, being a widower, he has no one to leave her with.” “And I suppose it is the American fashion to intrust one's daughters to any old boon companions?” “Mallory is an old friend,” interrupted the major, impatiently. “He knows I'm married, and although he has never seen YOU, he is quite willing to leave his daughter here.” “Thank you!” “Come, you know what I mean. The man naturally believes that my wife will be a proper chaperone for his daughter. But that is not the present question. He intended to call here; I expected to take you over to San Jose to see her and all that, you know; but the fact of it is--that is--it seems from this letter that--he's been called away sooner than he expected, and that--well--hang it! the girl is actually on her way here now.” “Alone?” “I suppose so. You know one thinks nothing of that here.” “Or any other propriety, for that matter.”