The Cathedral of Toledo is one of the world’s treasures, and all the world should see it; but for those who would or must read the sights of Europe a hundred descriptions of this vast, complex dream in early Gothic and late Renaissance and baroque have been written; and the best is forgotten at the end of an hour’s visit. It was almost deserted, and Over and Catalina walked slowly towards the Capilla Mayor, through the rich brown silence of the nave, whispering occasionally, but overpowered by the forest of shafts uplifting an immensity of vaulting before which the eye reeled. The centuries of carving, as various as the peoples that had come and gone, crystallizing even the broken voice of the Moor, melted into a harmony comparable only, said Catalina, to the wonders of a Californian mountain-forest—of redwood and pine, madroño and oak, and giant ferns as delicate as the lace of her mantilla. There were high vaultings, too, where the sun never ripened the moss on the earth, and endless cryptograms wrought before the hand of man had taken the message of the gods. Over replied, promptly: “I don’t believe half you have told me about California. Next year I shall obtain leave of absence and visit it—that is, if you will be my cicerone.” “Why not this year?” “Shall I?” “It is all the same to me, but I may not be there next year. I need Europe. Of course, I know that I am a sort of cowboy.” “Ah!” He hardly knew whether to be gratified or not. “Don’t desert your ranch altogether—nor surrender all the individuality it has given you. If you should be the great lady in Europe and ranch-girl at home—what a fascinating combination!” “Well, I can be anything I choose, and on five minutes’ notice, too.” “I am sure of it—but which is the real you? I think I know—then I am all at sea.” She gave him another swift, upward glance, but she replied, sedately: “The worst, of course. That is what people always decide when a person suddenly reveals himself in a bad light. Twenty other sides may have been exhibited, but it is the revelation of the worst that always inspires the phrase, ‘At last he has shown himself in his true colors.’” “Then you are too philosophical to condemn Mrs. Moulton utterly?” “She has taught me the extent of my philosophy, so I forgive her—and ignore her existence.” He made no reply, for he saw the Moultons not three yards away. They were in the Capilla Mayor, their necks craned in a vain attempt to register a permanent impression of the gorgeous coloring, the phalanxes of saints, the riotous beauty of carving on wall and arch and tomb. While he hesitated, Mr. Moulton brought down his tired eyes and they rested on Catalina. He gave a sharp exclamation of pleasure and hurried forward, his hand out-stretched. Catalina had included him in her wrath, but she forgave him instantly, and simultaneously conceived a stroke of revenge. Mrs. Moulton and Jane retreated, but Lydia ran to Catalina and kissed her.