"You cannot prevent the young from marrying. They will do it. Donald tells me he is to be married on the fifth of December. I suppose you know whom to?" "I know nothing about Donald, excepting that on the steamer to New York he met a Scotchman called Macbeth, and that somehow they struck up a friendship, and Donald was going with him to a place called Los Angeles. He appears to be much older than Donald. I do not understand such friendships, and, as I did not answer Donald's letter, he did not write again--and I have heard nothing further." "I will tell you further, though you are not deserving the news--the why and wherefore of the friendship between Donald and Mr. Macbeth was, first of all, that they both played the violin and both loved it, and on the voyage they turned the smoking-room into a concert room, for the Captain played likewise, and he brought his violin there when he could. The second thing was that everyone--men and women--were loving Donald, and when they reached New York Macbeth would not part with the lad, and they went together to Los Angeles, and then to his handsome home a few miles from the city. There he had great vineyards and farms of figs and lemons, and wonderful peaches and pears, and Donald has taken gladly and happily to helping him in the making of wines and raisins and the drying of fruit. The work is all out of doors in a climate like Paradise. In the evenings they play their violins and sing Scotch songs, and are as near heaven as they can be on earth." "You can't sing Scotch songs anywhere but in Scotland. They won't bear transplanting any better than bell-heather. Fancy bell-heather in a London park!" "Scotchmen are singing them all over _this_ world, and, for all I know, all over _other_ worlds; but we are getting away from our subject, which was my nephew, Donald Macrae. This Mr. Macbeth has a daughter, a beautiful girl, not eighteen until the fifth of December. Then he will give her to Donald with half a million dollars, which Donald will invest in Macbeth's business, and so become his partner. The girl is lovely as an angel. I have a picture of her. Do you want to see it?" "No." "And she has a beautiful name, and I'll just put it into your memory, Ian. She is called Mercedes." "Spanish! Is she a Spaniard?" "Her mother was a California Spaniard of old and wealthy lineage." "A Roman Catholic, doubtless." "Of course. That goes without saying. It does not matter if she loves God." "It matters anyway and everyway. It takes all the good out of the circumstance. The girl was the devil's bait for the poor lad's soul." "Nonsense, Ian! One creed is as good as another. Creeds, indeed! Religion has nothing to do with such outside details. God save us! What kind of a head must a man have who could think so? I can tell you, Ian, the belief in any creed stands in these days on the edge of a razor." "Then what have we left?"