"Raquel, do you really see how little the ideas of Don Rafael and his mother agree? I know little enough--thanks to California, which keeps its girls from education; but I do see that every thought of Rafael Arteaga is for the new ways, the ways of the Americano." The younger girl drew up her horse with a cruel jerk, and faced her friend. "Anita, beloved," she said, sadly, "you have said the thing I felt, but did not know. Why not let some less dear one tell me?" "Holy Maria! Who else would? You are going among strangers, but you are no more a stranger to the California of to-day than is Dona Luisa. I hope all the time some one tell you at San Diego, or at San Luis Rey, but no one does; and Rafael does not meet us; and--" "The letter did not reach him, or else he has gone by boat," said the other, steadily. "Anita, why do you sometimes seem not quite friendly to Rafael? Your words--" "Never think it!" cried Ana. "We are friends enough, but--I know him better than his mother--that is all! He has turned the heads of many girls, but I do not think he has turned yours, Raquelita!" The other girl made no reply. "I do not think so," continued her friend, "because you have never once lost sight of duty,--the duty Dona Luisa and the padre have taught you to see. You are good, Raquel,--when you are not in a temper; but about Rafael you do not think your own thoughts. You dream of the life of your father and Dona Luisa when all this land was theirs. But the dream is gone, and to-day we wake up." "I see--the old world was too slow. You wake up to be all Americano--no?" "Raquel, do you hate them as much as Dona Luisa?" The girl from Mexico turned her face toward the sea, and did not answer at once. Then she said: "Only once in my life have I spoken with an Americano, and I did not hate him." "A young man?" "He--he was not old," she confessed. "On my soul, I believe you have had a lover!" cried Ana. "Oho! you can play Rafael at his own game, after all! Santa Maria! I thought you were too pretty to be the saint they think you. Tell me!" "There is not anything to tell," said the younger girl, quietly, though the color crept to her cheek; and then after a little she added, "He died. I never saw him but once; the padre said I was wrong to--to--oh, they said things to me about heretics! I never knew any other, and I promised not to. But if he had lived I should not have promised; that is all." "All! Rafael would think it enough! On my soul, I am glad you are so human--though I have no love myself for heretics!" "Human!" mused Raquel. "Is it human to remember, when one should forget and cannot?" She did not say it aloud, and refused to discuss the matter further. "He is dead," she said; "Rafael cannot be jealous of a man I saw but once; it was only the dream of a girl--like a picture in a book--and the page is closed. I shall marry Rafael, and work in the world instead of in the convent. It is for Mother Church and--it is right!"