Already Arthur was pulling off the bedding and piling it upon the floor. They stood back of him in an excited group, every head craned forward to watch his movements.

Off came the pillows—blankets—sheets—finally the mattress. This last, a thin cotton affair, left a trail of fuzzy, lint-like debris behind it and disclosed on removal a canvas cover that had been spread underneath. The canvas, which was about on a level with the boxed-in bed frame, was as full of holes as a Swiss cheese and especially toward the center the weave had become disintegrated and given away to a dusty pulp.

“Rats!” exclaimed Uncle John, whose head was thrust between the shoulders of the major and Runyon.

As if his cry had been a summons, out sprang a huge gray rodent and the girls pushed back with loud screams as the dreaded beast struck the floor and scurried away down the passage. Another and another followed it, and now Louise, Patsy, Beth, Mildred and Inez were all dancing on top the seats, wrapping their skirts about their ankles and whooping like a tribe of Indians.

Amid this wild hullabaloo, which struck terror to the hearts of the brave men assembled, because at the instant they were too bewildered to realize what caused it, some six or eight monstrous rats leaped from the tattered canvas which covered the bed and vanished down the stairs.

Arthur put his hand down to raise the canvas and jumped back as he unearthed a nest of smaller vermin, squirming here and there in blind endeavors to escape their disturbers. Runyon brought a deep brass bowl from a shelf and dumped the small rats into it, standing by to capture others as they appeared.

Gradually Weldon drew back the cover and as he did so the truth of Runyon’s prophecy was apparent. The entire space boxed in by the carved bed-frame, from the floor to its upper edge, was packed solidly with valuable laces. That is, it had once been solidly packed, but now the rats had eaten tunnels and nests and boulevards through the costly laces in every direction. It was a scene of absolute ruin. However precious this collection might once have been, in its present state it was not worth a copper cent.

The party gazed upon the sight with mingled awe and astonishment. Regret for the destruction of the beautiful fabrics at first rendered them oblivious to the fact that the inheritance of Mildred Leighton was at last recovered—only to be proved worthless.

Arthur dragged out a few scraps and spread them upon the floor, thereby exhibiting portions of the beautiful patterns of the various pieces. Then, hoping to find some that had escaped the ruthless teeth of the rats, he and Runyon began pulling at the heap and working downward toward the floor. Just a few small pieces were found intact, but these were of slight value. Practically the entire lot was irretrievably ruined.

Scarcely a word was spoken as the investigation proceeded. Beth had clasped one of Mildred’s hands and Patsy the other, but neither dared look in the poor girl’s face, for they dreaded the poignant disappointment sure to reign there.

But after the first shock, Mildred bore up bravely. She had not expected, in the beginning, any tangible result; still it was very bitter to find her long sought fortune and realize that it amounted to nothing.

They sat around upon the benches, or leaning against the wall, and stared at the ruined laces with various emotions, the keenest being regret for the loss of so much beautiful handwork and sympathy for Mildred Leighton.

Suddenly Runyon broke the silence.

“This discovery is too thundering bad for mere words,” he said with feeling; “but Miss Travers—Mildred—must know we’re all as sorry as she is. She was right about the laces, but the laces are all wrong. This sad exhibit reminds me of my own perverse mortgages, and my mortgages remind me of something else. Mildred,” he added, turning to the girl in a dogged and rather shamefaced way, “I’m going to hold a private conversation with you right here before our good friends, for I know every one of them will back me up. Eh?” he questioned, glancing around the group.

There were some smiles, but many nods. As if encouraged, Runyon proceeded:

“This settles the question of your fortune. It’s gone—vanished into scraps. You’re a poor girl, now, with no glittering prospects, so what I’m going to say won’t seem quite so selfish as it would otherwise. In fact, had these laces been perfect, they would have rendered me dumb. As it is, here stand two impecunious ones—you and I. Between us we haven’t much more than enough to fry a fish, in solid cash, but among my encumbrances are a delightful little bungalow, nicely furnished, and a lot of lemon trees that can be coaxed to buy us groceries and ordinary comforts. I’m a lonely fellow, Mildred, and I need a companion. Will you marry me, and look after that bungalow?”

This extraordinary proposal was heard in breathless silence. The men were astounded, the girls delighted. Every eye turned curiously upon Mildred Travers, who regarded the big rancher with frank wonder, a wan smile upon her pallid features.

“You do not say you love me,” she suggested, striving through mild banter to cover her confusion.

“Well, isn’t that implied?” he answered. “No one would propose to a girl he didn’t love, would he?”

“You have only known me two days.”

“Two days and seven hours. But mother endorsed you and I’ll bank on her judgment.”

“When the mortgages come due, there won’t be any bungalow,” she continued.

“Don’t you believe it,” cried Runyon, earnestly. “With you to work for, I’ll make those tart old lemons pay the interest and a good income besides. In fact, if we live long enough, we may even manage to reduce the mortgages. You see, I’ve been extravagant and foolish, but it was because I had no aim in life. The minute you say ‘yes,’ I’m a reformed character.”

She shook her head and the smile faded from her face.

“Don’t think me ungrateful, Mr. Runyon,” she said quietly. “Unusual and—and—peculiar—as this proposal is, I believe you are sincere in what you say. But you are influenced just now by pity for me and I assure you I am quite capable of earning my own living.”

“But—oh, Mildred—-he’s so lonely,” cried Patsy, impulsively.

“I’m sorry for that,” she said, “but it is not my fault.”

“It will be, though, if you refuse,” declared Runyon.

“I fear I must.”

“I see,” he said with a sigh. “Mother endorsed you, but she didn’t endorse me. You’ve heard some tough yarns about me—all true as gospel—and you’re prejudiced. I don’t know as I blame you. If I were a girl I’d hesitate to reform such a desperate character, I’m sure. But I’ve the notion there’s the making of a decent fellow in me, if the right workman undertakes the job.”

She looked at him earnestly, now—very earnestly. In spite of the squeaky voice and the inopportune time he had chosen for such a serious proposal, there was an innate manliness and ingenuousness in his attitude, as he stood there unabashed and towering above the other men, that seemed to her admirable and impressive. Both Beth and Patsy were reflecting that a girl might do much worse than to accept Bulwer Runyon as a mate.

Said Mildred, still speaking in the same quiet and composed voice:

“I will give you a positive answer in three days, Mr. Runyon. That delay is mere justice to us both.”

“Thank you,” he said. “Shall we fuss with these tattered laces any longer? It hardly seems worth while.”

Now that the strain of the situation was removed they all began chattering volubly in order to give countenance to Mildred. Runyon seemed not to need such consideration.

Old Miguel had witnessed and overheard this scene from the background and his bright black eyes had roamed restlessly from the girl’s face to Runyon’s as if trying to read their true feelings. The discovery of the laces had not drawn any exclamation from the ancient ranchero, whose stolid expression nothing seemed able to disturb. As the others filed down the stairs and out of the recess in the wall, into the roomy nursery, old Miguel followed imperturbable and serene as ever. In the court he touched his hat to his master.

“I go now, Meest Weld?” he asked.

“Yes. Thank you, Miguel, for your help.”

“I thank you, too,” said Mildred, stepping forward to take the Mexican’s hand. “I remember you well, Miguel. In the old days you often took care of me while my father and SeÑor Cristoval talked. Don’t you remember?”

He nodded, his eyes fixed full upon her face.

“Once a friend, always a friend, Miguel,” she continued brightly. “Even to-day you have been trying to help me, and I am grateful. Some time we will have a good talk together about the old days.”

Then he went away, and if one who knew old Miguel Zaloa could have followed him, his actions would have caused surprise.

First he wandered deep into the orange groves, where—when absolutely alone—he began muttering excitedly. At times he would kick his booted foot viciously against a tree-trunk, regardless of the impact that numbed his toes and sent a tingle up his legs. After a time this remarkable exhibit of passion subsided and for the period of half an hour he stood quite motionless, staring straight before him and seeing nothing. Then he started off through the groves, climbed the fence into the lane and marched away through miles and miles of the surrounding country.

It was growing dark when Miguel at last appeared at the quarters, growling at the men and ordering them to get into the groves and work. They marked his ill temper and took care not to arouse his further anger. In the morning he was up at daybreak and in more gentle mood directed the beginning of the day’s labors.