Blanch stood before a long mirror that adorned one of the walls of her room, trying the effect of a new tea-gown.

The mirror was an ancient piece of furniture consisting of a faded gilt frame and six separate rows of large, unevenly fitting squares of glass; the style that was in vogue two centuries ago. As she regarded herself in it, she saw herself reflected in sections, probably with much the same effect as Marie Antoinette saw her reflection at Versailles.

"Coronada must have brought this mirror with him on his first expedition," she remarked to Bessie who lounged on the sofa on the opposite side of the room amid a heap of florid cushions. "I feel as though I had a personal grudge against that man," she continued, vainly endeavoring to catch an unbroken outline of herself in the glass.

"It's stunning, Blanch!" broke in Bessie from the sofa. "What is it—a Worth?"

"No—a Doucet. Isn't it absurd that I should array myself in these gorgeous gowns to compete with that Indian in her few flimsy calicoes and silks? The contrast is out of all proportion. It's the sublime and the ridiculous. And yet she looks well in anything! Dress her in rags and she is picturesque; robe her in silks and she is fascinating."

"That's just what I can't understand," said Bessie. "We couldn't wear her clothes, but she can wear ours. Why is it?"

"It's quite simple. We have been handicapped from the start because we have been forced to compete with them on their own ground. They are perfectly natural; they have nothing and aspire to nothing, while we are wholly artificial—have everything and aspire to more."

"Why, to hear you, one would think that Jack was talking!" exclaimed Bessie in genuine surprise.

"Oh! I don't pretend to agree with his views, but as regards us, he's about right. I was never able to see ourselves as some others see us until we came here. And I have come to the conclusion that our views of life are about as distorted as the cracked reflection of myself in the mirror yonder. We have unconsciously lived a life antagonistic to nature and consequently find ourselves ridiculous in our simplest endeavors to be natural. Of course," she added, "they would appear the same if things were reversed and we had them on our ground.

"With us," she went on, "marriage is more a game of intrigue than love; here it is purely one of sentiment. Aside from my intrinsic value, what weapon have I to employ against this Indian woman? The things which count for so much with us, fall flat here.

"Why, I'm not even in a position to make Jack jealous! If I were at home, I would have a dozen men at my feet and as many more as I wished to play off against him, not to mention the thousand opportunities for neglect. In fact, all the weapons which we women are so fond of employing against men. Whereas, here I am at the feet of my Lord Jack—his indifference is insufferable! Oh! I'll pay him back for this!" she cried, pale with anger.

"Men are brutes—all of them!" remarked Bessie laconically, rising to a sitting posture on the sofa.

"I hate him—hate him!" continued Blanch in a fresh paroxysm of passion. "To think that he of all men should have been the one chosen to show me myself—the only one of us who was strong enough to break away! Why was I not able to hold him? Why am I not able to come to him now? There is something wrong somewhere. We seem to have lost our grip on things. I can't understand it!" Just then the old, gilt French clock on the white marble mantelpiece slowly chimed the hour of five. The sound of the clock caused Blanch to pause. "Five o'clock," she said, calming herself. "Don Felipe will be waiting for us in the garden."

"That's so," answered Bessie, rising from the sofa and crossing the room to the window which looked out over the patio into the garden. "There he is now, pacing back and forth beneath the trees. What a restless man he is!"

"After the first cup, you might disappear, Bess," said Blanch. "I want to try to find out if he still cares for that Indian?"

"That was the most romantic thing I ever heard!" exclaimed Bessie.

"I wonder he ever returned," answered Blanch, opening the door and leading the way across the patio in the direction of the garden. The tinkle of a guitar attracted their attention to a group of peons and women squatted on their heels on one side of the court, in the shade of the arcades, smoking and chatting. A little beyond them, in the shadow of the doorway, stood the major-domo, Juan Ramon and the pretty housekeeper, Rosita.

"Dios! but she is magnifico—the tall one!" whispered Juan to Rosita as the girls passed them, nodding and smiling in response to Juan's deep salutation and Rosita's courtesy.

"And the little one," said Rosita in turn. "Is she not like a half-blown pink rose?"

"Aye! 'tis a feast for the eyes to look at them!" answered Juan. "There has not been so much life in the place since the old days when the Master was alive."

"If Don Felipe doesn't marry one of them he's a fool," added Rosita.

"That's just what I have been saying to myself," returned Juan.

"What else can he be doing here if he doesn't intend to take one of them back to his hacienda with him?" continued Rosita. "I've noticed that he and the tall one spend much time together."

"Aye!" ejaculated Juan. "It must be lonely at the old rancho without a woman to keep him company."

"The tall SeÑorita would be just the one for the place!" exclaimed Rosita enthusiastically.

"Rosita mia," began Juan confidentially after a short silence, during which his gaze rested pensively on the retreating figures of the girls, "I've just been thinking that there is no happiness for a man, still less for a woman, in a single life. What say you, Rosita mia," he went on, patting her familiarly on the cheek.

"Juan Ramon," interrupted Rosita with an angry flush, "if you don't want to get your face slapped, you had better behave like a Caballero!"

"Caramba! what a little spitfire!" returned Juan, pulling the end of his thin mustache, yet not in the least disconcerted by her show of temper. "But supposing, my pearl of a housekeeper, that I bought a neat little rancheria—do you know of any one who might care to look after it?"

"Bah! First pay your gambling debts, Juan Ramon. There will then be time enough to look for some one who will allow herself to be beaten on feast-days when you have drunk more pulque than is good for you. But Dios! why am I wasting words with you? The SeÑoritas will begin to wonder what has become of their chocolate and tortillas if I don't hurry."

"Ungrateful woman," responded Juan, assuming an injured tone. "Would you leave me without a kiss?"

"Holy Mother! what has come over you, Juan Ramon—has the sunshine gone to your head? A kiss, indeed!" and she tossed her head. "Go to Petronita, the cook! She is old; doubtless she will give you a plenty!" and laughing, she hurried into the dining-room in search of a tray with which to serve the ladies. The mere mention of the ancient, withered Petronita, with the parchment-like face, caused Juan's mouth to pucker as though he had bitten into an unripe persimmon.

"Diablos! if the luck would only change!" he muttered. "Rosita would be the very one—" The sound of light footsteps and the tinkle of spurs caused Juan to turn.

"Ah! buenas dias, SeÑorita!" he exclaimed, lifting his hat and bowing before Chiquita, who had entered the patio from the opposite side of the house. Her riding-habit, her boots and gloves and gray felt hat beneath which were twisted her thick braids of hair, were covered with thin white particles of dust.

"Where is your mistress, DoÑa Fernandez, Juan?" she asked.

"I will call her, SeÑorita," answered Juan, replacing his hat on his head and starting for the hallway.

"Never mind, Juan," called Chiquita, catching sight of Blanch and Bessie in the distance. "I will first speak with the SeÑoritas," and she turned toward the garden.

Juan's beady black eyes followed her tall figure as she moved toward the girls. Ever since the arrival of the Americans there had been much discussion in the household as to which was the more beautiful, Blanch or Chiquita. The SeÑora's dislike for the latter was well known, but in spite of this prejudice, opinion was pretty evenly divided concerning the merits of the two. It was a vexing question, and the opportunity of comparing the two women as they met in the garden was too tempting to be missed. So, with one end of his zerape slung carelessly over his shoulder, Juan strolled casually past the little group of women in the direction of the corrals, where he could observe them at his leisure from the recesses of the garden without attracting attention.

Notwithstanding the fact that the dark woman was at a disadvantage in her dust-covered riding-habit, he could not for the life of him tell which was the more beautiful of the two as he passed behind a thicket of lilac bushes, and seated himself on a rustic bench and began rolling a cigarillo between his long slim fingers.

Juan was a born gambler, and like all of his tribe, was usually in want of money. To-day he needed it more than ever, for that very morning his mistress had taunted him and threatened to leave him if he did not pay for the new dresses she had recently purchased, and for which she was now being dunned by her creditors. Never had he had such a run of bad luck. During the great week of the Fiesta he had tried everything from roulette to monte, but fortune's wheel had turned steadily against him. It was truly the devil's own luck and no mistake. If only the luck would turn, he would quit the game of chance forever—cast off the ungrateful Dolores, and.... He drew a much-worn pack of cards from his breast pocket and began cutting them with a dexterity acquired through long years of practice.

Like all of his race, and the majority of mankind for that matter, he was intensely superstitious. Three times in succession he cut and dealt the cards, and three times the ace of hearts, the luckiest card in the pack, turned face upwards on the bench.

"Santa Maria! 'tis a miracle—the luck has changed at last!" he muttered excitedly, as with dilated eyes and trembling hands he gathered up the cards and replaced them carefully in his pocket. His dream of the hacienda and the fair Rosita might yet come true. But how? The cards were too fickle to trust for long. Just then the rich, deep voice of Chiquita fell upon his ears. Without knowing why, yet intuitively he seemed to connect her with the turn in his fortune—and it set him thinking.

Ever since the Fiesta, curiosity had prompted him to learn something concerning Chiquita's motive for dancing; and whenever the opportunity presented itself, he had shadowed her. His patience was soon rewarded by learning that she made frequent visits to the Indian pueblo, Onava, often riding there in the late evening under cover of the dusk. On one occasion he saw an Indian ride forth from the village and meet her on the plain where she awaited him. They engaged in long and earnest conversation, at the end of which he fancied he saw Chiquita draw nearer to her companion and hand him something, and then the darkness shut them from view. He did not dare follow her farther or enter the village, for fear of attracting suspicion to himself; but surely this was a clew to something, to the mystery, perhaps.

At this juncture, Juan rolled a fresh cigarillo as he listened to the voices of the women, his eyes resting on Captain Forest's horse in the corral beyond the garden. The animal fascinated him; never had he laid eyes on such a superb creature. Each day he visited the corral for a look at him, and each time the Chestnut would rush at him with ears laid flat on his neck and mouth wide open, displaying his formidable teeth.

"Caramba! what an animal to stock a rancho with, if only—" Juan sighed, and for some moments roundly cursed the past run of cards. The afternoon sun was pleasantly warm, and the shade sleep inviting. He threw the burnt end of his cigarillo on the ground, and, drawing up his feet, stretched himself at full length on the bench—the upper half of his fox-like face appearing just above the edge of his zerape.

Dios! was it not better to sleep and even dream bad dreams, than waking, meditate upon the misfortunes of life?