"But Concha had character. She was not one to go into a decline--although I am woman enough to know that her pillow was wet many nights; and besides she lost the freshness of her beauty. She was often as gay as ever, but she cared less and less for the dance, and found more to do at home. Don Jose was made Commandante of the Santa Barbara Company that same year, and it was well for her to be in a place where there were no memories of Rezanov. But late in the following year as the time approached for his return, or news of him, she could not contain her impatience. We all saw it--I was visiting the Pachecos in the Presidio of Santa Barbara. She grew so thin. Her eyes were never still. We knew. And then!--how many times she climbed to the fortress--it was on that high bluff beside the channel--and stared out to sea--when 1808 and the Spring had come--for hours together: Rezanov was to return by way of Mexico. Then, when I went back to San Francisco soon after, she went with me, and again she would watch the sea from the summit of Lone Mountain, as we call it now. In spite of her reason she hoped, I suppose; for that is the way of women. Or perhaps she only longed for the word from Sitka that would tell her the worst and have done with it. Who knows? She never said, and we dared not speak of it. She was always very sweet, our Concha, but there never was a time when you could take a liberty with her. [Illustration: "SHE WAS ALWAYS VERY SWEET OUR CONCHA, BUT THERE NEVER WAS A TIME WHEN YOU COULD TAKE A LIBERTY WITH HER." FROM A PAINTING BY LILLIE V. O'RYAN.]