“I guess I wasn’t,” she said laughing. “You must have known father before that. _He_ came over in forty-nine, you know. I was born twenty-four years ago up in the mountains, in Eldorado County, in a little cabin miles above Placerville. Mother’s often described the place to me. They left soon after.” He lowered his eyes. He was a man of no sentiment or tenderness, yet something in this false statement, uttered so innocently by these fresh young lips, and taught with all the solicitude of love to this simple nature, pierced like an arrow to the live spot in his deadened conscience. “It was more than twenty-five years ago that I was there,” he said. “You evidently were not born then.” “But my mother was there then. Do you think I look like her? My father thought I was wonderfully like her.” He looked into the candid face. Memories of Lucy before his own harsh treatment and the hardships of her life had broken her, stirred in him. “Yes,” he said slowly, “you’re very like her. But you’re like your father, too.” “Am I?” she cried, evidently delighted. “Do you really think so? I do want to look like my father.” “Why?” he could not help asking. She stared at him surprised. “Wouldn’t you like to look like both your parents, if they were the two finest people in the world?” Here Mrs. Willers cut short the conversation by asking Mariposa to sing. The girl rose and went directly to the piano. For days this moment had been looming before her in nightmare proportions. She was feverishly anxious to do her best and sickeningly fearful of failure. Now her confidence was unshaken. Something--impossible to say just what--had reassured her. Her hands were trembling a little as she struck the keys, and her first notes showed the oscillation of nervousness, but soon the powerful voice began to come more under her control, and she poured it out exultantly. She never sang better. Her voice, much too large for the small space, was almost painful in its resonant force. Of the two men the elder was without musical knowledge of any kind. He was amazed and delighted at what seemed to him an astonishing performance. But Essex knew that with the proper training and guidance there were possibilities of a brilliant future for this handsome and penniless young woman. He had lived much among professional singers, and he knew that Mariposa Moreau possessed an unusual voice. For reasons of his own he did not desire her to know her own power, and he was secretly irritated that she had sung so well. She continued, Shackleton requesting another, and yet another song. Only the clock chiming four roused him to the fact that he must go. He was living at his country place at Menlo Park and had to catch a train. He left them with assurances of his delight in the performance. To Mariposa, as he pressed her hand in farewell, he said: “I’ll see you again. You’ve a wonderful voice, there’s no mistake about that. It’s a gift, a great gift, and it must have its chance.”