Morning suddenly discovered something upon the toe of his boot, and the girl struggled on in very bad English, but with charming enthusiasm. She planned and he interpreted. They first laid out the grounds, availing themselves of the groves already planted by the Indians. They covered acres of ground with rare exotics, studding them with statuary in creamiest marble, chiseled from designs of their own, with a Psyche and Cupid to guard the main entrance to the park. “What is that ting she a hold in her hand?” “That is a torch,” explained Morning. “Psyche is the soul, and Cupid is love, and she is going in search of him.” “And did she find a him?” archly questioned the girl. “I think not,” said Morning, gloomily drawing forth a fresh sheet of paper. “And about the _casa grande_,” continued Morning, “of what shall it be built?” The señorita rested her pretty chin between her two palms and meditated. Finally she decided it should be like the cupids, of shining marble, with agate or onyx for columns, and garnets—found in quantities in Arizona—for smaller decorations. This most elaborate plan having been at length crudely completed, Mr. Morning folded it, quietly saying he would submit it to an architect. “Not truly?” said the girl, springing to her feet with shining eyes and hands crossed upon her breast. “Yes, really and truly, for your own sweet self, and for your hospitable family; and with my kindest regards and deepest gratitude.” Murella turned very pale. Dreams were not dreamed to be so realized. Was he teasing her? Hitherto her self-love had made her the central figure in her own mind. All things about her had been dwarfed and become inconsequent in her egotistic life, because she was wholly ignorant of any possibilities outside of the power she wielded through her beauty and her grace. But a new element had been added to her limited experience, and it had developed into a magician, or had it done so really? The doubt took momentary possession of her, and she arose in an attitude of defiance, her flashing eyes resting upon the amused but open countenance of David Morning. Then she knew that she looked into the face of her god, and she fled to her room, and, sinking upon the floor, she covered her face with her mantilla, and sobbed convulsively. CHAPTER XII. “Secrecy is the soul of all great designs.” It was October when Morning arrived in New York City. Steel had been prompt in shipping the gold not covered with copper, and Morning’s bank accounts in New York now amounted to sixteen millions of dollars, while the fame of the Morning mine as a producer of four millions of gold bars per month had already created a marked sensation in financial and business circles, and in the newspaper world, but none suspected the immense actual production.