The girl had indeed caught the spirit of her semi-tropical climate; for the room was charmingly in sympathy with the world outside of the windows. The rough walls, pale yellow, in combination with the paneled ceiling and colonial casings, painted cream, had surely created a perfect background for the admirable furnishings. Never before had quaint chairs and deep couches looked so inviting as these in Morris cottons. Their creamy tone, relieved by soft browns and warm yellows, defied the sordid observer, who could never quite estimate their yard value. The broad windows were curtained in simple falls of dainty lace of open texture that excluded neither sunlight nor landscape. In the colonial fireplace burned a real fire of huge logs, that was never allowed to die out, and warmed with irresistible comfort the fresh, healthful atmosphere of the room. In unsuspected corners and in bold situations, great satsuma jars filled with ferns and tall papyrus emphasized the possibilities of a Pasadena home. Cheerful watercolors in plain white frames adorned the walls, while above the fire, an old French mirror caught from the picture-window opposite the distant shadows and sunlit spurs of the peaceful Mother Mountains. Long-stemmed roses and dear old silver candlesticks gleamed side by side upon a quaint, inviting tea-table, which, close by the glowing fire, shone like a glimpse from America's most picturesque period, adorned with the dainty relics of a colonial tea-set. "The room is superb," Mrs. Sanderson declared, as she surveyed critically its artistic details. The rich oriental rugs and large white Angora skins thickly strewn upon the straw matting completely captivated Mariposilla. She timidly sank her feet into a rug lying before one of the broad couches, blushing perceptibly, I thought, at the recollection of her own humble home. The simple child was nearly frightened by the prevalent luxury, and but for the watchful attentions of Ethel, might have grown uncomfortable. With infinite tact her pretty hostess led her about, with the familiarity of a sister, often coaxing her into artless bursts of enthusiasm. "The library is papa's success," Ethel explained as we sauntered reluctantly from the beautiful drawing room. "You see," she continued, "Papa, too, has made a California room. Excepting his books, there is hardly a vestige of civilization to be found."