“You know, these two weeks, I’ve had time to take stock of myself,” Austin continued. “I was in a groove. Well, travelling over these hills has taught me the value of change and recreation. I’m going back to town to settle things up so that I can get away to Europe for a long vacation. I’m afraid that means more work for you, Ned.” The young man looked back at him soberly. “Yes, sir?” “Sort of a manager. What do you say?” For a moment there was perfect silence; next, a general movement; then--Dorothy’s fork fell from her hand and clattered upon a plate. “Manager,” repeated Heaton. The older man nodded, and smiled from one to another of the circle. When he came to Dorothy, he saw a face from which petulance and pretence were gone. Her eyes, as they met his, were as childishly honest as Vincenza’s own. And they were shining with tears. “And while I’m away you could take care of my house, Ned, if--if you weren’t a single man.” Again, a perfect silence, a silence almost electric. Hal and his mother exchanged a second swift glance. Miss Scott leaned forward. She looked at no one, and spoke with sly triumph. “Congratulations,” she said. * * * * * With Arroyo far behind, and High Court only a white dot upon the brown-grey hills, Austin turned from the car window, took out the round locket and opened it. In his face there was none of the old pain. Instead, he looked with a tender smile upon the pictured face of his wife. “Barbara,” he said, “the spring of youth--it never could be found a second time. We drank from it together--we enjoyed it to the full. What a mistake--mourning instead of exulting in the memory of it--a memory that no one can take from me--of youth with you, dearest, of youth with _you_!” THE SILVER BELL OF LOS MORALES Strange things are related of the old Indian pueblo of Los Morales on the Rio Grande. And a tale that is one of the strangest concerns these--a dark vaquero--a young painter of Indians, fair as the vaquero was dark--a blue-eyed girl with a spotted mustang--a little father of the chapel of San Felipe--a dove that was a peacock--a peacock that was a living example--a deer fed on flowers--and an empty belfry that sounded forth the ringing of a bell. * * * * * “Ah-ah,” said Father José, pausing in the midst of his salad-making to listen, “--more trouble!” The young man at the easel looked up. “Gracious!” he exclaimed, and faced about to peer through the low, wide-ledged window of the kitchen. “It sounds serious.” “But it is only Anastacio and Paloma,” said the father wearily. He trotted across the worn floor to fetch a deep white-and-gold dish from his cupboard. Returning, he held the dish up. “It was my mother’s,” he explained proudly, “--like all those upon the shelf. She had a full set of porcelain. And my salads are always most palatable in this dish.” “Paloma,” repeated the painter, with a fleet glance at the dish. “That means a dove.”