"My child, I have a wish, but its fulfillment would involve the folding together of events that time has unfolded; indeed, the turning backward of time." She dropped her hands in concern. "O, papacito, tell me your desire," coming again to the arm of his chair. He did not reply. "O, little papa, you are so serious. Please tell me what it is." "I wish, little girl, that as a stripling I had come here and had built my life into this Western world. That favor of kings I had never known--I care nothing for their disfavor--but of my own self, coupled with the resources with which nature has endowed California, I had evolved the best that fortune would have sent me, were it hacienda house and administratorship, or a humble hut with modest plot of ground, such as has the least of my peons." A tap at the door. "Enter," from Mendoza. A peon stepped within. Thrice he bowed low to the master, then to the doña. "Señor Mendoza, a stranger awaits you in the outer office." "Does he give his name?" "Here it is, señor." The peon porter handed Mendoza a piece of paper on which was written, in bold, rough characters, "Charles O'Donnell." "O'Donnell--O'Donnell--Let him enter." The peon again bowed low to the master and his daughter. Backing through the door, he bowed once more. Almost immediately the stranger, O'Donnell, stood in the doorway. Señor Mendoza was on his feet formally awaiting his visitor. The man's broad, strong shoulders touched from doorpost to doorpost, his head barely coming within the door without his stooping. His buckskin shirt, opening low at the front, showed the long, red beard which was fastened together by a cord, and disappeared into the expanse of his chest. His hair, darker than his beard, was long and bushy. This also was caught by a string and was partially hidden under his shirt. Steely-blue eyes looked out over regular features. A sombrero was in his hand. His buckskin trousers were protected from hip to knee by shaggy leggings of bearskin. "Señor O'Donnell, will you enter and be seated?" "I thank you." The stranger moved toward a chair with dignified and soldierly step. "Señor, the Administrator Mendoza, I am here to inquire if you know of the present whereabouts of one Captain Farquharson, an Englishman who left Mexico City some months ago to hunt big game in our high Sierras here." "Señor O'Donnell, why do you ask of me the present abiding place of this Englishman? I am Administrator of the Mission of San José. My jurisdiction does not reach to the high Sierras, nor to the city of Mexico." Mendoza's glance was careless as he thus replied to the questioner.