So the last day came, and Murella, abandoning her customary hammock, sat all the morning upon a thick rug spread upon the ground, exhibiting her irritable feeling by nervously tossing the clinging folds of her lace mantilla back over her shoulder, or tracing the figures of the rug absently. Morning seemed lost in reverie for a long time; finally he spoke, evidently a little doubtful where to begin. “I do not need to tell you, señorita,” said he, “that I feel the greatest gratitude toward the inmates of this household, and I ask you to tell me, not what you would wish me to do for you, but what is the wish most dear to you if I were not in the world?” “Oh, if Señor Morning die, I shall die too.” “Oh, no! if some fairy should wave its wand, or some Fortunatus should drop uncounted gold at your feet, what would you do first?” The soft eyes of Señorita Gonzales flamed as never eyes of Saxon maiden burned, and she quickly replied, rising and drawing nearer:— “I would have a _casa grande_.” “And where would you have a grand _casa_, here?” “No, no!” giving her hand a truly Delsarte sweep of motion. “Long time ago my mother take a me to Yuma, and there I hear much talk about Castle Dome; it is twenty, thirty miles up the great river Colorado. One time we sail up there in steam a boat, and such a rancheria—beautiful! Great trees, and rocks, and the Indians have been show how by the padres long time ago, and they have beautiful trees of figs, and oranges, and lemon, and great vines. And I have tink about it always. When I am rich a I shall drive the Indians away, and give money for make a them not hungry, and make a _casa_ all like a same in picture.” “We all have our castles in Spain. Why not you, Murella?” and he drew forth a pencil, and, spreading paper upon the table, asked her to sit down. “Now,” said he, “we will build this fine house upon paper. What shall we do first?” “We shall have a dance-house.” Morning smiled grimly; the mining camps enjoy a monopoly of literary phrasing, and the compound word was familiar, so he only said, “All right, a salon for dancing.” “Si, señor, saloon,” repeated Murella gravely, “and a grande saloon for beautiful flowers.” “A conservatory, of course, though that will be superfluous,” he added, “in a country itself a hotbed for tropic bloom. Why not hanging gardens like those of Babylon?” “Oh, beautiful!” clasping her little fingers in ecstasy. “Very well,” looking into her face, pencil suspended. “And a beautiful room for a you,” and she paused for a moment, “with, with what you call, wall like the sky before the sun a come, and morning glory flower go all around the top,” pointing to the frieze, “a like a your name, Señor Mia.”