A footstep descending stairs somewhere seemed unusually loud. Finally a door opened, making a grating, out-of-place sound. Señor Mendoza's erect form appeared on the west side of the courtyard. He walked leisurely toward an avenue shaded by the interlacing branches of thick-leafed walnut trees. A tiny brook fed by a spring in the middle of the courtyard purled along by his feet. A grateful coolness lifted itself to greet him. The odor of damp earth mingled pleasingly with the scent of flowers; and from under the south wall of the inclosure came the rhythm of a miniature waterfall as the brook lost itself on the rocks many feet beneath. The señor found that he was not alone in seeking the leafed coolness of the walnut alameda. The Doña Carmelita was standing at the end of the walk listening, apparently, to the music of the water. Her hair, free save where a golden clasp held it at the neck, gave play, as it flowed over her back, to the beginning breezes from the western sea. The profile of her face was thoughtful. Delicate lines traced the exquisite fullness of a form straight and slender. "My daughter is a beautiful woman!" he half ejaculated. Many thoughts ran through his mind in panoramic vision. He recalled the long gallery in his father's castle where had hung the pictured forbears of the de la Mendoza. Generations were there. Their characteristic form and features had descended to Carmelita. No government rule could prevent that, though it might vent titles and confiscate lands. "My daughter a woman! A beautiful woman!" The thought half startled him. The girl turned and walked toward him. "Little papa! Little papa mine! are you taking the siesta on your feet?" Carmelita's slender hands were on his broad shoulders, and she was endeavoring to shake him. Her merry laugh pealed through the avenue. "I smiled at you, and smiled at you, and blew kisses at you, while you looked at me as if I were a thousand leagues away, and you deigned never the least recognition," standing on tiptoe and kissing him. "I was living again the years of very long ago." "Tell me about it, little papa." She took his arm, and together they walked along the avenue. "Tell me about it, papacito," she repeated. "Why are you not at the siesta?" disregarding her question. She looked up at him demurely. "I did not care to sleep. Besides," jestingly, "we must accustom ourselves to the ways of the Americano who will soon come here. You remember I have spoken to you of Señor Brown, the man who was so thoughtful in the cave the night of the storm?" He pressed her arm tenderly in reply. "I saw him lately in San José. He told me, among other things, that Americanos never sleep in the day, and sparingly at night; indeed, often with one eye open." She laughed. Her father joined. "The Americanos are coming, you say?" The girl stepped in front of him, placed her hands against his breast and looked into his face.