Night had fallen before arrangements for the caravan had been disposed of and the weary pack animals relieved of their cargo. Don Tiburcio refreshed himself and removed the stains of travel, making ready to present himself in the candlelit _sala_ of Don Anabel’s house and to meet the ladies. He made a fine figure in his velvet short jacket, his silver-buttoned breeches, and a pair of excellent boots with inch heels. He was taller than either his host or Luis, both of whom wore their best heeled boots also, and their finest shirts of frilled white linen, their handsomest serapes and sashes, brought from Mexico the year before. Father and son stood until their guest had seated himself in a heavy low chair. A slippered servant brought small silver goblets and a pitcher, and Don Anabel poured a fragrant drink. “My peach brandy, señor,” he offered. “_Saludes_ [Your good health]! It seems to me that it has an exceptional flavor. The peaches are from the Valley of the Rio Grande.” The visitor from Mexico sipped critically and settled down with the appreciation of the connoisseur. “It is quite perfect, señor. And well I remember the most excellent grape of last year.” “You shall taste of a still older vintage at supper, Don Tiburcio.” “And is not that the _indiana_ we brought you last year?” Don Tiburcio nodded at the red calico tacked shoulder high about the whitewashed walls to protect the backs of those who sat around the room. The simple hangings looked, in the glimmer of yellow candlelight, like a rich tapestry, a proper setting for the heavy, brass-studded chairs, for the florid oak table, the massive candlesticks. The rough floors were covered with buffalo robes and with rich Mexican shawls, serapes, and serapes also draped the sofas at each side of the room. On the wall above the mantle of the low fireplace hung a painting, dark and old and cracked and priceless. Don Anabel prized it above all his possessions, claiming it was a Murillo; and because of his affection for the painting, which he related had been brought over a century and a half before, his family also venerated the canvas. It was a Madonna and Child, with cherubim. Don Tiburcio looked for and found the painting. “Two possessions of yours I would like to take away with me, Don Anabel,” the Mexican visitor said with that air of courteous compliment of the grandee. “_Mi casa es suya, señor_ [My house is yours],” Don Anabel was repeating the formal phrase of Spanish hospitality.