"There are horses' hoofs," said Doña Jacoba. "Leave thy father's house and go to thy lover." Elena followed her from the room, walking steadily, although she was beginning to tremble a little. As she passed the table in the library, she picked up an old silk handkerchief of her father's and tied it about her head and face. A smile was on her lips, but no joy could crowd the sadness from her eyes again. Her spirit was shadowed; her nature had come to its own. They walked through the silent house, and to Elena's memory came the picture of that other bridal, when the very air shook with pleasure and the rooms were jewelled with beautiful faces; but she would not have exchanged her own nuptials for her sister's calm acceptance. When she reached the veranda she drew herself up and turned to her mother with all that strange old woman's implacable bearing. "I demand one wedding present," she said. "The greenhide reata. I wish it as a memento of my mother." Doña Jacoba, without the quiver of a muscle, walked into her husband's room and returned with the reata and handed it to her. Then Elena turned her back upon her father's house and walked down the road through the willows. Darío did not notice the calico frock or the old handkerchief about her head. He bent down and caught her in his arms and kissed her, then lifting her to his saddle, galloped down the road to San Luis Obispo. Doña Jacoba turned her hard old face to the wall. A RAMBLE WITH EULOGIA[1] [Footnote 1: Pronounced a-oo-lo-hia.] I Dona Pomposa crossed her hands on her stomach and twirled her thumbs. A red spot was in each coffee-coloured cheek, and the mole in her scanty eyebrow jerked ominously. Her lips were set in a taut line, and her angry little eyes were fixed upon a girl who sat by the window strumming a guitar, her chin raised with an air of placid impertinence. "Thou wilt stop this nonsense and cast no more glances at Juan Tornel!" commanded Doña Pomposa. "Thou little brat! Dost thou think that I am one to let my daughter marry before she can hem? Thank God we have more sense than our mothers! No child of mine shall marry at fifteen. Now listen--thou shalt be locked in a dark room if I am kept awake again by that hobo serenading at thy window. To-morrow, when thou goest to church, take care that thou throwest him no glance. Dios de mi alma! I am worn out! Three nights have I been awakened by that _tw-a-n-g, tw-a-n-g."_ "You need not be afraid," said her daughter, digging her little heel into the floor. "I shall not fall in love. I have no faith in men." Her mother laughed outright in spite of her anger. "Indeed, my Eulogia! Thou art very wise. And why, pray, hast thou no faith in men?" Eulogia tossed the soft black braid from her shoulder, and fixed her keen roguish eyes on the old lady's face.