As we entered the house I felt like crying. I was chilly and tired, and had the feeling that I had been beaten even by Nature. There was now no excuse for returning to the ranch until after the rain. I had foolishly pleaded the danger of exposing Marjorie to the drive, in case of a storm, and now the rain had come--come to stay for several days; perhaps for a week. I could not consistently depart until the downpour had ceased. When I said early in the day to Mrs. Sanderson that the weather had become so threatening that I would very much prefer taking the children home, she silenced me by reminding me that Mariposilla was visiting with the full consent of the Doña Maria. "The child would be heart-broken to lose one day of her promised week. As for yourself, you need a change to wake you up. It is absurd for one so young to refuse the natural enjoyments of youth, and I think your determination not to dance a pretty but silly affectation. California is not the place to mourn in. The climate is opposed to dejection. The natives go to funerals in the morning and chase with the hounds in the afternoon." "Don't," I cried peremptorily. "Don't make me believe that you mean what you say." "All the same, I do," she replied. "I am a fatalist, and while I am permitted to enjoy myself, I shall avoid sackcloth and ashes." Perceiving that I was hurt, she endeavored to appease me. "Never mind, little dignity," she said, smiling her rarest smile. "You are always preaching me silent sermons; though you don't mean to scorn me, I feel your principle in the air, until I am wild to shock you in return." Later, we went for our walk, each a little uncomfortable, as each began to wonder why she had chosen the other for her friend. Upon our return Mrs. Sanderson had remained in the corridor in front of the open fire attempting to dry her dress. I went above at once. As I passed the familiar sitting-room I saw through the open door that the room was deserted. Mrs. Wilbur and Mariposilla had evidently not made a success of the practicing. Without stopping I went to my own rooms, where I found Marjorie still asleep. Pushing open a communicating door, I saw Mariposilla upon her bed. Her head was buried in the pillow, while long, choking sobs caught and held her breath. She had been so happy but a short time before, flattered and pleased because Mrs. Wilbur had invited her to practice duets, that I was surprised at her condition. "Tell me, dear child," I said, gently, "what has happened." For several moments she refused to speak, but after a time she grew more composed. It was clear to me at once that Mrs. Wilbur was responsible for the girl's passionate grief. "Never mind my unhappiness, dear Señora," she said at last, touchingly. "I am a poor, foolish girl, and must weep when I am sad; just as I rejoice when I am happy. It is not so with the Americans--they smile always, even though they are miserable." I found it impossible to insist upon a confidence.