Just in time. The dust of the caravan came rolling along to the accompaniment of shouts of greeting, of long whistles. On it came in the late afternoon sun, like a special cloud of gold; and now from the cloud emerged the first wagon, lumbering and swaying behind three teams of great white oxen that to Consuelo’s ravished gaze seemed to snort blood and to be harnessed with gilded leather. Strange, clear-cut voices rang out among the familiar _gritos_ of the _arrieros_. How they pierced the consciousness! On came the _carros_, and the laden mules, helter skelter, right down their street. _Madrecita mia_, what luck! And then all the rest of the caravan melted away into the golden haze of dust, and Consuelo’s gaze was riveted upon one figure on horse, trotting briskly, side-stepping, as though he and his rider had not been ready to die of fatigue an hour before. A blond, hatless Americano, with hair like burnished metal in the sun, and a face--a face! The caravan halted, some difficulty turning in the narrow street ahead, or a jam of mules, and the rider drew up almost beneath her window. He passed a kerchief over his warm brow and lifted his head to look about. His glance traveled toward Consuelo, peering over the funny little crooked balcony. He may have heard the involuntary exclamation that had escaped her. They gazed straight at one another. Steven thought, “What an uncommonly bewitching face,” and instinctively bowed. “Señorita,” he saluted, “_Buenas tardes_,” and rode on, surprised that such a radiant picture should have risen out of the dust to frame itself in the window of a square adobe house. Consuelo saw him pass with a moment of dismay, as though this buckskin-clad young god might be riding on out of her picture--and then, for her eyes were still filled with his smile, saw nothing more, not even the swaying Dearborn wagon that followed close upon the dust of the youthful trader, nor the pale girl who sat on the front seat, tears of relief streaming down her face, a boy held close in her arms. Consuelo scrambled down from her perch and away to the _sala_ in search of news. Oh, if she could but run out into the street and hear for herself, and see! Bah! What restrictions! Perhaps from the dining room she might catch again a glimpse of them as they turned down the street. She ran into the _comedor_, bumping full into Luis, who jumped as though a snake had rattled at him, and turned a trifle angrily, setting down the silver pitcher which he held. He recovered at once and, holding his sister at arm’s-length, remarked, pleasantly, fondly: “How lovely we are looking! All ready for the dance tonight, eh! But where so fast?” Ah, so there would be a _baile_! Enchanting! Consuelo smiled happily and unaffectedly at Luis, grateful as always for a moment of real affection from him.