Padre Antonio sat before the open window in his living-room in a large, comfortable chair, enjoying the beauty of the evening and the fragrance of the last flowers in the garden, waiting for Chiquita to complete her toilet.

It was one of those soft, balmy autumnal evenings, and gave promise of a night of majesty and serenity when the moon rose in her full glory to hold her silent watch over the earth once more. It was sweet to live on such a day as this, when all the world seemed at peace; and what a perfect night for the fandango. Presently the sound of light footsteps and the soft rustle of a dress interrupted the train of his thoughts, causing him to turn from the window to Chiquita, who, attired in her ball dress, entered the room and paused before him.

There was not an inharmonious touch in her attire of soft creamy satin and lace, richly embroidered with golden flowers. Delicate filmy threads of gold intersected the heavy white Valenciennes lace mantilla attached to her high silver comb, etched in gold and studded with diminutive diamonds, which sparkled in the light like dew in the sunshine. Her white satin slippers and silk stockings, like her corsage and saya, were also delicately worked in gold. A sheaf of golden poppies adorned one side of her head, nestling close down upon her neck and shoulder in the folds of her jet black hair. She presented a truly striking appearance, and Padre Antonio gazed long and silently at her, his keen eyes scanning her critically from head to foot in an effort to detect a fault.

How he loved his little girl! It almost seemed as though she were endowed with something more than earthly beauty. In her the strength and grace of the deer and panther were blended with the ethereal delicacy and beauty of the flower. But it was her face that bespoke the luminous nature of the soul which dwelt within her. So close was the bond of sympathy and mutual understanding between them, that she instinctively half divined his thoughts and it gave her courage.

"Will I do, Padre mio?" she asked with a slight hesitancy, smiling and looking down at him inquiringly. The question was so characteristic of her that he could only smile in response.

"Chiquita mia—there's one thing lacking," he said at length, the far-away, dreamy look fading from his eyes.

"Something lacking?" she repeated in surprise, turning and casting an involuntary glance at the small mirror on the wall opposite in a vain effort to catch a full view of herself.

"Yes, SeÑorita," he answered knowingly, almost mysteriously. "But it's not your fault. It sometimes takes the discerning eye of a man to perceive what a woman's toilet lacks."

What can it be, she asked herself, looking wonder ingly and inquiringly up into his face, and then turning to follow him with her gaze as, without further comment, he left the room and slowly ascended the stairs to his study on the floor above. He paused for an instant on entering the room, then walked straight to his desk at the other end; a large upright piece of furniture of ancient pine made in the mission style and stained dark to represent oak, which, owing to its age, it closely resembled. Pulling out the middle drawer, he pushed back a secret panel on the inside, disclosing an opening in the back of the desk from which he drew a small sandalwood box which, on being opened, contained a silver casket, richly chased and of an antique design.

Years had elapsed since he last looked upon it, and he regarded it curiously for some moments as he held it in his hands. Then setting it down upon the desk, he turned the small key which unlocked it and raised the lid, disclosing its contents, which consisted of a fan, a bracelet of six strands of large pearls with a diamond clasp in the shape of a crown, and a long, magnificent necklace of still larger pearls, also composed of six strands, like the bracelet, and a large diamond slide also in the shape of a crown. The fan was one of those exquisite, daintily hand-painted French creations of ivory, lace and vellum of a century gone by. On one of the outer ribs was also a small diamond crown and on the other was traced a name in letters of gold. A delicate fragrance like that of withered rose leaves escaped the casket, and, as he silently contemplated its contents, his gaze fell upon the name on the fan—Chi quita Pia Maria Roxan Concepcion Salvatore—the name was much longer, but his eyes dimmed—he could read no further.

Instinctively he raised the casket with both hands and was in the act of pressing his lips to its contents, when he caught sight of a crucifix on the desk in front of him, causing him to pause, cross himself reverently and lower the casket again.

Who was Padre Antonio? Involuntarily his thoughts traveled back over the stream of years when, as a youth of twenty, he bade farewell to old Spain forever and with a heavy heart set forth alone to find God and peace in the wilderness of the new world. Fifty years had passed since then and with them, the secret and tragedy of his life lay buried.

He heaved a deep sigh and, picking up the casket, turned toward the door. Chiquita listened to the sound of his footsteps as he slowly descended the stairs, and gazed in wonderment at the casket he held in his hand when he reËntered the room. Without a word, he deposited it upon the table in the center of the room and, raising the lid, displayed its contents to the dazzled eyes of his ward. Never had she beheld such wonderful jewels—what did it mean?

"Padre mio!" she gasped, her eyes wandering questioningly from the casket to his face, which appeared a little paler than when he left the room but a few minutes before.

"I never imagined that another woman would ever be created worthy to wear them," he said quietly, picking up the bracelet and fastening it about her left wrist, and winding the necklace twice round her throat, the ends falling down over her bosom to her waist. "May God's blessing forever rest upon you, my child," he added, making the sign of the cross above her, and stooping, he kissed her lightly on the forehead.

Involuntarily her hand went out for the fan, and as her eyes fell on the name upon it, her woman's instinct told her all.

"Padre—Padre mio!" she cried, and throwing her arms about his neck, burst into a passionate flood of tears on his breast.

"There, there, my child!" he said at last, regaining his accustomed composure. "I now know why I was never able to part with them—not even to the Church. I was keeping them for you."

"But I'm not worthy to wear them, Padre!" she exclaimed.

"Tut, tut!" he replied. "The ways of God are past all understanding. When I think of how you came to me unsought and unbidden, and now, how Captain Forest of a different race—"

"Oh, Padre, do you think I stand a chance of winning him?" she interrupted, looking inquiringly up into his face as if to read the answer there.

"Ah! that is a difficult question, my child. Love and intrigue are such uncertain quantities to deal with, you know. Yet it seems strange that he should have come into your life at this juncture. Captain Forest," he went on after a pause, "is a great man. As you know, we have talked much together of late on that most interesting of all topics—life. And it seems to me that if ever God had plainly indicated his wish, you have been reserved for one another to perform his will. Of course, I can not say this for a certainty, but it appears so to me, and to see your hands and hearts joined together will be the crowning joy of my life—" Suddenly his left hand went to his heart, where he experienced a sharp pain. A dizziness seized him, causing him to lean heavily upon her for support.

"Padre mio—what is it?" she cried in alarm. "You are not well! We'll not go to the fiesta to-night—'tis better we remain at home!"

"It's nothing—nothing, my child," he answered, after the dizziness had passed. "It's only a slight attack of indigestion, like the one I had last summer while engaged in the mission work. You know," he added lightly, "I'm no longer as young as I was—such things must be expected." All day long she had experienced a dread of impending disaster which she could not shake off, and which she naturally connected with Don Felipe. But why go to the Posada that evening if Padre Antonio was not feeling well—there would be other days.

Again she protested and urged him to remain at home, but in vain—he would not hear of it.

"It will do me good to go," he said, helping her on with her long white silk Spanish mantle, embroidered with gold and lace to match her dress. Then, drawing on his black silk gloves, he picked up his hat and stick, and they passed out into the garden and through the tall iron gate, turning their steps in the direction of the Posada.