"So good you are to come for me, _mijita_. And when rain, too--so horriblee San Francisco. Never I want to see again. And the uncle? how he is?" "He says he will live until you come; but he won't live long after." "Poor man! I am sorry he go so soon. But all the mens die early in California now: work so hard. Live very old before the Americanos coming." They could talk without restraint in the carriage, for the maid did not speak English; but Mrs. Polk merely asked how her husband had caught cold. Her fair placid face and sleepy eyes showed no print of the years. She seemed glad to see Magdalena again. "Often I wish have you with me in Santa Barbara," she said. "But Roberto is what the Americanos call 'crank.' No is use asking him. Santa Barbara no is like in the old time, but is nice sleep place, where no have the neuralgia, and nothing to bother. Then always I have the few old families that are left, and we are so friends,--see each other every day, and eat the Spanish dishes. I no know any Americanos; always I hating them. So thin you are, _mijita_; I wish I can take you back." But Magdalena felt no desire to go with her; her aunt seemed to belong to another life. When they reached home, Mrs. Polk went to Mrs. Yorba's room to remove her wraps and drink a cup of chocolate. She smoothed her beautiful dusky hair and arranged the old-fashioned lace about her throat, then sailed in all her languid majesty across the hall. "Aunt," said Magdalena, with her hand on the door of the sick room, "will--will--you kiss uncle?" Mrs. Polk raised her eyebrows. "Why, yes, is he wanting; but I never kiss him in my life. Why now?" "He is dying, and he has wanted you more than anything." "So queer fancies the seeck people have. But I kiss him, of course." As she entered the room, Mr. Polk raised himself slightly and stared at her with an expression she had never seen in his young eyes. It thrilled her nerves within their mausoleum of flesh. She bent over and kissed him. "Poor Eeram!" she said. "So sorry I am. But you no suffer, no?" He made no reply. He sank back to his pillows; and after greeting her brother, she took a chair beside the bed and sat there until her husband died, in the ebb of the night. He held her hand, his eyes never leaving her beautiful face, never losing their hunger until the film covered them. What thoughts, what bitter regrets, what futile desires for another beginning may have moved sluggishly in that disintegrating brain, he carried with him into the magnificent vault which his widow erected on Lone Mountain.