As I dropped into my accustomed nook of the veranda, the industrious Doña Maria hastened out to the kitchen to perform a remaining duty. Then, before she had made the still rich, dark hair tidy, and perhaps said a prayer to the little wooden Virgin in the corner of her bedroom, her pupil had arrived. Mrs. Sanderson was driven by a groom; her son was not with her. Sidney had gone coursing with some people from East San Gabriel who kept hounds, she explained. I remember that I wondered instantly if the man had followed Mariposilla. As it was impossible to know, I could only appear interested in the progress of the drawn work. For some unknown reason the lesson soon lagged. Mrs. Sanderson grew irritable over her indifferent success, and for the first time wearied me a little. The lady was in one of her intolerant moods. Her captious rejoinders and censorious criticisms upon the guests of the hotel annoyed me. I realized for the first time that possibly I myself might sometime become a target for my capricious friend's sarcasms. Marjorie wanted to go for a walk, so, excusing myself, we departed. Holding my little one's hand, I tried to forget, in her sweet, unconscious talk, the caustic brilliancy of the woman I had left. Every stray dog or resting bird that enlivened our walk delighted the child. When we came to some anthills she grew flushed and excited as she built a fence about the thriving city to protect it against the invasion of tarantulas. Ever since Antonio, the Mexican, had unearthed a tarantula one morning in the corner of the orchard, Marjorie had regarded the ugly yet comparatively harmless creature as California's one demon. Romancing in her play, she slew the formidable monsters in single imaginary combat, enjoying among the birds and butterflies the same enviable notoriety that St. Patrick attained when the snakes fled from the Emerald Isle. Watching my child at play, I scarcely realized that the short winter day was rapidly settling into twilight. At once hastening home, we found Mrs. Sanderson gone and the Doña Maria busy preparing supper. Half an hour later it was dark and Mariposilla had not yet come. I could see that the Doña Maria was uneasy, for she went often to the door, once as far as the turn in the driveway. Supper was now waiting. The frijoles were in steaming readiness, and yet Mariposilla was absent. All were growing alarmed, when the dashing of horses' hoofs told me that not one but two persons had arrived. In a moment, I had flashed the light of the room through the open door into the night. I heard distinctly the sweet, low voice of Mariposilla and saw her lifted to the ground from her pony. In the uncertain light the strong arms of Sidney Sanderson appeared to poise dangerously long the girlish form that resisted not the delay of the transit.