To this ranch house and all that it contained, Charles Sydney was made most cordially welcome. Of course, his bright face and his taste for fine old wines and brandies made him a prime favorite with the old Don -whose own sons had degenerated, with the easy facility of their race, from young landed proprietors into sheep-herders, vaqueros, and what-not. Sydney was a favorite with the women, too-but then he had always been that. They did not seem to mind his drinking to excess occasionally. They seemed even to like and encourage it, esteeming it rather manly-as is the way with their

Of course, there was a reason for all this, aside from the acquirement of a knowledge of the Spanish-and while a large part of that reason lay in the good cheer which prevailed at La Roblar, I very much fear that a larger part lay in the witchery which lurked in the dreamy, passionate, black eyes of the Don's only daughter, Claudia.

Truly she was a woman to make a man forget all the world beside in her presenceher form, slight, yet rounded in the perfect curves of Andalusia; eyes liquid with melancholy, yet breathing the very fire of tropical longing; skin just tinged with olive, yet showing beneath its satin smoothness the faintest trace of richest carmine; long lashes, drooping ever downward; features regular in outline as some delicate sculpture; dainty, shapely hands and feet; a curving swell of throat and neck; and a well poised head crowned by a shimmering mass of raven hair, straight as the tail of an ebon charger.

Sydney loved her-almost before he knew

it.

What was the cold regard he had felt for Agnes to the fiery longing for possession which now filled him? And yet—and yet -sometimes a pale, accusing, beautiful face would rise before him, and he could find forgetfulness only when he felt the blood of the grape tingling in his finger ends.

Is it necessary to tell that Claudia loved him also? Well has it been said that "the Spanish maid is no coquette." Why should she feel shame in the great gift which had been showered upon her?

So they loved, and so at last there came a time when Sydney's passion would be denied no longer and a day had been set for their wedding.

The old Don made no objection. Was not his prospective son-in-law at least apparently possessed of five thousand sheep? That was enough. He called them his own. He never spoke of his Eastern relatives. For all Don José and Claudia knew to the contrary, Charles Sydney might have been without a tie on earth. It was not their cus tom to inquire as to the character and antecedents of their guests. What was told them they believed. More they cared not to know.

At first, Charles had told them nothing, simply from his inability to do so. Afterwards, as he grew to love Claudia, he had remained silent. Confession meant renunciation—and he was not strong enough for that.

But he was even more criminally silent than he had been to Claudia; for he told Agnes nothing of his new love, his engagement, or his approaching marriage. It is true he wrote her no such warm letters as of old he could not carry deception so far as. that-but she attributed this silence to business cares (as he had intimated), and, woman-like, loved and trusted on.

Once, only once, his better nature had almost conquered him, and he resolved to tell Claudia and brave everything. It was perhaps a month before the time set for their wedding. He had received a letter from Agnes, oh, so delicately sympathetic, telling him gently that his father had died suddenly ten days before, and that two days afterward

tired, and went to bed, thinking to see me in the morning. He may be in this very house, now-or there may be other hotels; or perhaps he had not expected me so soon. He would think that the Winters had trayeled slower than they actually had."

Her conflicting thoughts thus kept her tossing restlessly until broad bands of sunshine stole in at her window, and lay quivering upon the worn "three-ply" carpet; and she arose feverish and unrested.

She found herself the first arrival in the long. low-ceiled dining-room, and sipped her tea and ate her poached egg with but very little relish. Everything was clean and neat, and bright and pretty, but her appetite had deserted her.

Afterwards she went up stairs into the plainly furnished parlor, and sat gazing idly out upon a street upon which, in spots, green grass was growing, and where a wagon, dust covered, and apparently from somewhere in the mountain country, was passing now and again. A few vagrant flies drummed idly against the window, and across the street a row of low, tile-roofed adobes seemed to sleep in the indolent atmosphere. Further up town there was a quaint old church, its whitewashed walls fairly glimmering in the sunshine, with antique wooden doors and deepset, small-paned windows, and low, massive belfry, with a double chime of bells in full view; while still higher up the street, where the rows of adobe broke and mingled with tiny frame stores and square-fronted bricks, there seemed to be a slight stir as of business -but it was very slight. Plank sidewalks lined the street on either side, and up toward the hillsides there were glimpses of beautiful gardens and waving trees-and this was January.

All of this, however, had but very slight interest to Agnes. She might grow to like the town, and she might not. It did not matter so much, either. Charley had written that he lived among the pines, and she knew that must be pleasant; anywhere would be pleasant with him-and then she branched off into a train of visionary musing, as girls will, which was broken by the entrance of

the landlady—a bustling Western woman, gifted with her full share of curiosity. "Got any friends about yer, Miss?" she said, with the freedom peculiar to her kind. "Oh, yes," said Agnes, blushing a trifle. "I expect a gentleman-a friend-to meet me here."

"Does he live in these parts, this friend of yours, Miss? Maybe I mought know him. I reckon I know everybody about yer, mostly."

Agnes hesitated a moment, and then, something of kindly sympathy in the woman's homely face appealing to her, she answered:

"His name is Sydney-Charles Sydney. He has a sheep farm somewhere on Sawmill Mountain or some such place as that-I think. Do you know him?"

'Why, in course I know him. Why, he's the feller that's a goin to git married tonight to old Don José Carillo's darter, Claudy. Is he kinsfolk of yourn, Miss?"

Married! For a moment a great cloud seemed to swim before Agnes Denton's eyes. She thought that she was going to faint-but she did not. Pale and cold, with a chill which struck to her very heart, she recovered her composure with an effort; and the woman still droned on:

"Sydney's the feller they call the 'Hermit of Sawmill Mountain'-the boys call him that, Miss, for no earthly reason, as I kin see, except that he haint never alone. Allus got some boys havin' a good time at his place, er out somewheres a rampagin' around with the Spanish gals. Did you say he was kin o' yourn, Miss? 'Cause he's in the house, now, and if yer want to see 'im, I'll send him up. He come in to git married tonight, as I said afore, and maybe he'd want to see you."

The woman started toward the door as she spoke. It seemed to Agnes that she went over her whole life in a flash, before she said:

'No, I do not wish to see him-just yet." The woman stopped, looking at her in slight surprise. For only a moment did Agnes doubt. The landlady's face was the very essence of sympathy. She could be

was killing her-she knew no other woman -she must tell some one-she must have advice and help. She looked up and spoke again :

"Will you come to my room in half an hour? I must have time to think—and, in the meantime, do not tell Mr. Sydney nor -nor anybody-that I am here."

Then she walked steadily down the hall and entered Room 7. It took her a long time to think out her position-to realize that the man she loved was untrue to her. "It cannot be," she moaned. "It cannot be."

And yet reason told her that it was true. It was preposterous to think, as she had at one moment wilfully hoped, that there were two Charles Sydneys in the same place, and engaged in the same business. At all events, her line of conduct was marked out plainly enough. She would see this man-herself unseen-and if it were her Charles, why he should never know that she had seen him. With a great sigh of relief she remembered that she had not put her name upon the register the night before.

Promptly as the half-hour expired, there was a soft rap at the door, and the landlady entered. Her face fairly beamed with goodnatured curiosity and kindly sympathy.

Agnes was in manner almost her old self as she met the woman. "I am going to tell you a secret," she said, "and to ask you to help me. I know that you can."

Easy enough, miss. The Padre marries 'em at the Mission at eight o'clock tonight. Ef you hev a thick veil we can easy slip into a back seat unbeknownst to nobody. Most likely, only the candles up front will be lit."

Promptly as the vesper bells chimed eight o'clock that January evening, two well-filled carriages dashed up to the front of the Mission church and discharged their loads of gayly chattering occupants. On the arm of the stately old Don José, Claudia swept down the center aisle of the church between the stiff-backed pews, her darkly glorious beauty trebly enhanced by the cloud of tulle, and satin, and old point lace in which she moved. Behind them, leading the Doña Carillo, was Sydney-erect and handsome, but with flushed face and sparkling eye, which to one watcher, at least, betokened heavy potations. After the bridal party, a gay crowd swept up the aisle, and ranged themselves in silence before the altar rail.

Within the church a dim, shadowy darkness half hid and half revealed the solemn scene. The candles upon the altar gleamed like stars upon the surrounding gloom, and the ghostly light of a young moon mapped upon the floor the outlines of the western windows. Upon the walls the faded pictures of the Passion were but darker spots upon the darkness--and the large crucifix upon

"I have known Charles Sydney all his life," Agnes went on, speaking with nervous rapidity. "I am engaged to be married to him, and I came out here to fulfil that engagement. You tell me that he is to be married tonight. I do not know that this is the same.man-but I think that it is. I must see him-but where he cannot see me —and find whether it is he or no. There has been some terrible misunderstanding, but if it is the same man he must never know of my presence here. Never! Do you understand? I have plenty of money, and

bitter agony, was brought out startlingly by the one swinging lamp which burned before it. Upward the rudely painted walls faded into darkness, and the great rafters holding the roof might have been the supports of the vault of heaven-so high, and dim, and dark did they seem.

From one side a priest in the sacred vestments of his order moved softly like a shadow, and took position in front of the high altar with its lofty gilt cornice, its showy mirrors, and its solemn symbols. Turning slowly to face the church, he raised his hands in solemn silence. The bridal party knelt