“What beautiful cups,” she said. “It would be a pity to break them.” “They’re grandma’s. They’re the only two left. Grandma had some stunning things, brought round The Horn by her husband in the early days, before the Gringo came. He was a great man in his day, Don Manuel Garcia.” “Is she your grandmother, too?” Mariposa asked. It seemed natural to put pointblank questions to this man, who so completely swept aside the smaller conventions. “Mine? Oh, Lord, no. My poor old granny died crossing the plains in ’49. I was there, but I don’t remember it. I call old lady Garcia grandma, because I’m here so much, and because I look upon them as my family.” “Do you live here always?” asked Mariposa, looking with extinguished eyes over the piece of bread she was nibbling. “No, I live at the mines. I’m a miner. My stamping-ground’s the whole Sierra from Siskiyou to Tuolumne.” He looked at her with a queer, whimsical smile. His strong white teeth gleamed for a moment from between his bearded lips. “I’m up at the Sierra a lot of the time,” he continued, “and then I’m down here a lot more of the time. I come here to find my victims. I locate a good prospect in the Sierra, and I come down here to sell it. That’s my business.” “What’s your name?” asked Mariposa suddenly, hearing herself ask this last and most pertinent question with the dry glibness of an interviewer. “My name? Great Scott, you don’t know it!” he threw back his head and a jolly, sonorous laugh filled the room. “That’s great, you and I sitting here together over supper as if we’d grown up together in the same nursery, and you don’t know what my name is. It’s Gamaliel Barron. Do you like it?” “Yes,” said Mariposa, gravely, “it’s a very nice name.” “I’m glad you think so. I can’t say I’m much attached to the front end of it. It’s a Bible name. I haven’t the least idea who the gentleman was, or what he did, but he’s in the Bible somewhere.” “Saul sat at his feet,” said Mariposa; “he was a great teacher.” “Well, I’m afraid his namesake isn’t much like him. I never taught anybody anything, and certainly no one ever sat at my feet, and I’d hate it if they did.” There was another pause, while Barron continued his supper with unabated gusto. He had finished the cold meat and was now spreading jam on bread and butter and eating it, with alternate mouthfuls of tea. Though he ate rapidly, as one accustomed to take his meals alone, he ate like a gentleman. She found herself regarding him with a listless curiosity, faintly wondering what manner of man he was. Looking up he met her eyes and said: “You’ll be very comfortable here. Don’t let the first glimpse discourage you. Elsie’s careless, and the boys are pretty wild, but they’re all right when you come to know them better, and grandma’s fine. There’s not many women in San Francisco to match old Señora Garcia. She’s the true kind.” “What a pity her son died!” said Mariposa.