“Las Palomas forever!” said he, striking the table with his bony fist. “This _padrino_ from the Mission is a very fine gentleman but a poor matchmaker. Just because young Don Blas is the son of a Travino, the keeper of a picayune _tienda_ at the Mission, was that any reason to presume for the hand of a daughter of Las Palomas? Was he any better than a vaquero just because he doled out _frijoles_ by the quart, and never saw a piece of money larger than a _media real_? Why, a Las Palomas vaquero was a prince compared to a fawning attendant in a Mission store. Let Tia Inez stop fretting herself about losing Juana—it would not be yet awhile. Just leave matters to him, and he’d send Don Alejandro home, pleased with his visit and hopeful over the match, even if it never took place. And none of those frowns from the young lady!” As we all arose at parting, the old matchmaker went over to Juana and, shaking his finger at her, said: “Now, look here, my little girl, your mistress, your parents, and myself are all interested in you, and don’t think we won’t act for your best interests. You’ve seen this young fellow ride by on a horse several times, haven’t you? Danced with him a few times under the eyes of a chaperon at the last _fiesta_, haven’t you? And that’s all you care to know, and are ready to marry him. Well, well, it’s fortunate that the marriage customs of the Mexicans protect such innocents as you. Now, if young Don Blas had worked under me for a year as a vaquero, I might be as ready to the match as you are; for then I’d know whether he was worthy of you. What does a girl of your age know about a man? But when you have as many gray hairs in your head as your mother has, you’ll thank me for cautioning every one to proceed slowly in this match. Now dry those tears and go to your mother.”