But in the beautiful city of Tejon a glorious era of happiness was in progress. Christmas-tide had come round again, and had been made gay with a tournament of roses, and then with the dawning of the New Year had followed a round of festivities in honor of the double wedding of Dick Willoughby and Merle Farnsworth, Chester Munson and Grace Darlington. In no place was there more sincere and hilarious rejoicing than in the back parlor of Buck Ashley’s fine new store, where the mystery keg, sacredly reserved for this great occasion, was once more on tap and the postmaster, assisted by Tom Baker and Jack Rover, dispensed hospitality to a few chosen friends. But all good things come to an end, and it was with a regretful sigh that the sheriff squeezed out the last few drops from the tilted keg and sipped for the last time “the blessed nectar” that had served to keep green the memory of “dear old Pierre.” The marriage ceremonies had been performed in a fine little church that sheltered all denominations in the new town, and amidst a shower of rice and old shoes the happy couples had departed for the wedding breakfast at La Siesta. To Merle the day was one of blissful joy, but of tender regrets as well. During the quiet afternoon hours she and Dick had conversed about their dear old friend, Mr. Robles—the gallant and chivalrous Don Manuel—the beloved father whose identity as such was known only to their own two selves besides Mrs. Darlington and Tia Teresa. And now the hour of departure on the honeymoon trail had come. The idea of a trip to Europe had been abandoned for the present. The young couples were going up among the Canadian Rockies, by divergent routes which would meet a little later on, and all were full of enthusiasm at the thought of seeing the mighty mountains in their wintry grandeur. Mrs. Darlington accompanied the young people to the railway station, but Tia Teresa was too deeply affected to trust herself away from home. Merle had kissed her a tender good-bye in the apartment in the tower, and, despite the joyful promise that they would soon meet again, had left the old duenna in prayerful tears before her little altar. At last they were pulling out from the depot, where the church crowd of the morning had reassembled in full force, with fresh supplies of good-luck munitions. 0371