The widower’s children were registering shrill rapture over their stockings and the tree; the older members of the house party, having been enlightened by Estrada, drew quietly back and watched with leashed curiosity as the trio went through the room and down the long corridor. Virginia halted before the door of the last bedroom, the heavy old-fashioned iron latch in her hand. “This is Aleck’s room. No one ever comes here but myself; no one else ever takes care of it.” She flung open the door. Then, at the dim prompting of some Spanish forbear, she made a little ritual of it, taking his hand and leading him over the threshold. “Now I give it to you.” She led him gently across the red tiled floor to a great armchair, cushioned with a brilliant Navaho blanket. “This was Aleck’s chair.” She began quite steadily. “He always sat here. And now you are sitting here. And you saw him die, didn’t you? I saw him live, all the years of his life, riding the range, in this house, in this room--and you saw him die. You saw--Aleck--_die_.” Then she started to cry, very quietly. She slipped down and sat huddled on the floor beside him, her forehead against the big arm of the chair. He leaned over and laid his hand uncertainly on her hair, but he could not manage to say anything to her. It was as if the courage and energy which had driven and dragged him across an ocean and a continent had left him utterly, now that his pledge was kept, his message given. So they stayed there, in silence, save for the slight sound of her grief, until old Manuela bustled in and took soothing but competent charge. Manuela was not unaware of her mistress’ bare ankles and throat. She cast a scandalized black eye upon them, hurried her off to her own room to dress, flung up a window to the quick morning air, brought a footstool, tucked the Navaho snugly about the young soldier. “And now, I go to bring the _señor_ something warm to drink. Would you like coffee or chocolate, _Señor_?” Dean Wolcott roused himself with a palpable effort. “I must not stay. My cousin is waiting at San Obispo; he will be anxious--” “Coffee or chocolate, _Señor_?” The old woman slipped a soft, small pillow behind his head. “Coffee, then,” said the stranger, wearily. “Chocolate will be better, _Señor_.” She beamed approval on him, quite as if he had chosen chocolate. “I go now to bring chocolate for the _señor_.” She was back in ten minutes with a steaming cup and stood over him until he had drunk the last velvet drop of it. “And now the _señor_ will rest.” The warm comfort of it went over him like a drug. He leaned his head back acquiescently. “Yes; I will rest for a few moments.” Manuela turned back the spread of delicate Mexican drawnwork and patted the pillows. “The _señor_ would rest better upon the bed,” she said silkily. Dean Wolcott shook his head. “Thank you; I do not care to lie down. I will sit here for a few moments....”