Don Mariano had only said, “What is the plan?” a very natural and simple inquiry, and yet it threw Clarence into something of a flutter, as it flashed vividly before his mind that the said plan was based entirely upon the fate of the Texas Pacific Railroad, and that as a natural sequence it depended upon the wisdom, the moral sense and patriotism of Congress. If Congress acted right and did its duty as the mentor, guardian and trustee of the people, all would be well. But would it? Would it, indeed? The past promised nothing to the future, judging by the light of Don Mariano's experience. But why should the Texas Pacific not be granted aid? The public treasure had been lavished to help the Central Pacific, a northern road—why should the southern people not be entitled to the same privilege? These thoughts flashed through Clarence's mind before he answered, then he said, somewhat timidly:

“The plan is to establish a bank in San Diego, with Mr. George Mechlin for President, and Don Gabriel for Cashier. The only drawback is, of course, the delay there might be in constructing the Texas Pacific Railroad—the delay in the growth of San Diego. As yet, however, we are hopeful, and the prospect seems good.”

“The prospect is perfectly good, and I would have entire confidence in it, if the fate of the railroad did not depend upon right and just legislation. The Congressmen from the north do not seem to feel all the interest they should in reviving the south. They are angry yet. The fact that they coerced back into the Union the southern people has not appeased them yet, it seems. I wish Tom Scott would build his road without Congressional aid. The success of your banking project must, of course, depend upon the amount of population in San Diego.”

“Undoubtedly. And if there is no railroad, there will be no population. But Mr. Mechlin and myself are ready with our money, and with the least encouraging sign we start our bank. I think we will begin at first with two hundred thousand dollars. Mr. Mechlin says he can subscribe twenty-five or thirty thousand dollars, and I will put the balance in, subscribing thirty thousand for Don Gabriel, twenty-five thousand for Victoriano and twenty-five thousand for Everett, with ninety thousand for myself.”

“You must be prudent in incurring risks.”

“I am. I have more than two hundred thousand that I can put in this bank without troubling my government bonds or my farm.”

Clarence then explained to Don Mariano his financial affairs.

Don Mariano smiled as he said: “I had no idea you were so well off.”

“I expect to make a fortune out of my Arizona mines,” said he, laughing.

“Take care. Do not put any of your government bonds in them.”

“Indeed, I shall not. The interest on those bonds gives me nearly thirty-five thousand dollars per year, and this income is for—” here Clarence blushed and was silent.

“To take care of your wife,” Don Mariano said.

“Yes, sir; for that alone. But do you think DoÑa Josefa will object to me after you explain my position?”

“As her only objection is that she thinks you are squatters, she would be very unreasonable should she hold the same objections after she knows that you are not.”

“You make me very happy telling me that. I hope you will let me know soon what answer she gives to you.”

“Certainly. You can come to-morrow.”

“I have some little packages that Mrs. Mechlin sends. I can bring them this evening—the ladies might wish to see the contents.”

“Of course, they will. They wouldn't be women if they didn't. They'll want you to relate all the incidents of the voyage, too, and the trip to the Yosemite. If you can, come this evening. I'll tell them you are coming.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Everett and Victoriano overtook them now as they entered the valley.

“Say, Clary,” Everett called out, “don't you want to get out here and change seats with Tano?”

“I'll take him home,” Don Mariano answered; and they all drove toward the Darrell house.

At the door were Mr. Darrell and Alice. Immediately after, Darrell came out to greet his son. He was rather cordial to Don Mariano, and asked him to come in and take lunch. This was so very unexpected to all his hearers, that, with the exception of Don Mariano, all showed their surprise. This kind invitation, however, was politely declined—whereupon Victoriano, pretending to feel slighted because he was not invited, tossed his head at Clarence and Everett, and marched majestically towards his father's carriage.

Everett overtook him, and would not let him get in, insisting upon his remaining to luncheon. Victoriano then indicating that he was entirely pacified, remained, perfectly happy, knowing his seat would be near Alice, and that was the allurement, but he said to Tisha, as she came to set a plate for him:

“Your cooking is so good, Tisha, that I always come sneaking around, begging for an invitation, for I am sure you have something nice to give us.”

“La massa! and right welcome ye are, too, by everybody in this 'ere family, and I knows it exactly.”

And Tisha winked to herself in the pantry, indicating to the crockery on the shelves that she knew why Massa Tano liked her cooking, “and Miss Alice knows it, God bless her,” said Tisha, nodding her head to the rows of preserves and pickle jars, in sheer exultation, for there was nothing so interesting to Tisha on the face of the earth as a love affair.

“All the world love the lover,” says Emerson, and Tisha could certify to this aphoristic truth, for who more humble than Tisha? And yet her heart went headlong to the lover, whoever he might be. Therefore, a love affair in the Darrell family was to Tisha perfectly entrancing. She had been in a state of undefined bliss ever since her perceptive organs and other means of information had indicated to her that Clarence was in love! She had taken upon herself to watch and see that the affair progressed and ended happily.

In the evening Clarence proceeded to deliver the packages sent by Elvira to her mother and sisters.

With beating heart he timidly ascended the steps of the front veranda of the Alamar house, for he did not feel entirely certain that DoÑa Josefa's objections would be withdrawn. He was not kept in suspense about the matter, however, as now, preceded by woolly Milord, the handsome matron herself came forward to meet him, extending her hand in welcome most gracious. She never had seemed to him so handsome, so regally beautiful. He thought that he had been right in imagining Juno must have looked like her. And when she smiled, as she extended her hand to him, he thought that such was surely the smile, the manner and the beauty of a goddess.

“I am so glad to welcome you, Mr. Darrell,” said she, “and knowing that you wish to speak to me, and as I, too, wish to speak with you alone, I thought I would meet you here by myself.”

Milord barked, wagged his tail in token of friendship, and sat up to listen.

“You are very kind,” Clarence said, placing the packages on a table near him, not knowing, however, what else to say.

“Sit down,” DoÑa Josefa said, pushing one of the large arm-chairs for Clarence to sit near. “And let me begin our conversation by apologizing for the very wrong, very unjust opinion I have had of you. Believe me, it gives me great pleasure to know I was mistaken.”

Her voice, her manner, were more gracious than her words, and Clarence thought that it was not to be wondered that the daughters were so very charming.

“I am the one who should apologize,” he hastened to reply; “I ought to have asked Don Mariano to explain my position to you before.”

“I wish you had, for that would have saved us many anxious thoughts. But let us not regret the past too much, only enough to cause us to appreciate the present. I understand how you felt, not wishing to seem disrespectful to your father, and yet not agreeing with him.”

“It has been the source of very painful feelings to me to see my father so misled, but I have found very great comfort in the fact that my mother agrees with me. She told me she would never come down if I did not pay for the land.”

“Yes; Mariano told me this, and I beg of you to convey to her my regrets at having been in error about this matter. Will you do so, please?”

“Certainly, madam; with great pleasure.”

“I trust that her good influence will be of great assistance to you in persuading your father to change his views.”

“Yes, I hope so; in fact, I feel pretty sure that, more or less warmly, all of my brothers and sisters will agree with me, especially Everett and Alice. Another fact, also, is in my favor, that my father promised to Don Mariano, when he first took up the land, that he would pay for it if the Courts decided against the settlers. That promise, I think, will have a good effect, for he always keeps his word. When the appeal is dismissed I shall remind him of it. In the meantime I shall watch my opportunities to conciliate him, for I feel sure he will resent my having paid for the land without his consent.”

“That is a pity. I am very sorry for that.”

“It is unpleasant that he should take so decided a view of so clear a subject, but I feel perfectly justified in acting as I did. What I do regret sincerely is that you and—and Miss Mercedes should not have known the truth sooner,” said Clarence, reddening to the roots of his hair, for he felt that he was touching on most delicate ground; with anxious, beating heart he waited for her reply.

Her face flushed a little. Was it pride, or was it because the heart of woman must always flutter when in her presence the subject of love is approached, in which ever direction it may be, and no matter if the snows of eighty winters rest placidly on her brow? Love is woman's special province—she has, or has had, or will have, power there. Man might take, and absolutely appropriate, monopolize and exclude her from money-making, from politics and from many other pursuits, made difficult to her by man's tyranny, man's hindrances, man's objections—but in the realms of love he is not the absolute dictator, not the master. He must sue, he must wait, he must be patient. Yes, the lord of creation often has to take snubbing quite meekly, for he can't help it.

Clarence knew all this, but he saw DoÑa Josefa smile, and grew brave.

“Yes; Mercedes, poor child, was very unhappy, and it went to my heart like a knife to send her away, but I deemed it to be my duty—I hoped it would be for the best.”

“And so it was. You did right.”

“Yes, but it did not enter into my calculations that you were to jump on board the steamer,” said she, laughing.

Clarence's face and ears became crimson.

“I hope you have forgiven me for it,” he stammered.

“I suppose I must,” said she, still laughing.

“I assure you I had no idea of doing such a thing, but when I saw her going I didn't care what I did.”

“And as you received some dispatches, you thought it was best to dispatch other matters as well.”

“But, after all, she left everything for you to dispatch. My fate is in your hands.”

It was now DoÑa Josefa's turn to blush.

“I thought that George and Mariano had decided that.”

“No, indeed. It is all left to you. Please be merciful,” he pleaded, feeling very nervous, for he heard steps and voices approaching from through the hall.

“What shall I say?”

“Say yes.”

“Yes,” she said, smiling, with a kind look in her beautiful eyes.

He glanced quickly toward the front door, and seeing no one in sight, dropped on his knees, and seizing her hand, covered it with hurried and vehement kisses, saying:

“Thanks! thanks!”

And all before she knew what he was about.

“Impetuous boy! is that the way you rushed and assaulted my poor little Mercedes?” said she, laughing.

“You have said yes—God bless you for it.”

“But, yes to what?”

“Ah! your heart will tell you.”

“What is that? What about the heart?” asked Don Mariano, standing in the door. “This looks like love-making. I am interested. Let me hear a little of it,” said he, pulling after him a chair, to sit between Clarence and his wife.

“It is love-making, only it is by proxy, and I am to guess at things without being told,” said she, still laughing.

Clarence was greatly embarrassed. He knew he had not formally asked for the hand of Mercedes in the serious manner that the subject merited, but he had been carried away by his fears, then by his hopes, and the matter was launched before he could scarcely say how. When for months past he had thought, time and again, of a probable interview with DoÑa Josefa, he had imagined himself talking to that queenly lady in his most stately Spanish. But now he had taken hold of Cervantes' language—I may say, jumped into it, just as he had jumped on the steamer's deck, thinking of no difficulties in the way, except that they must be overcome in order to reach Mercedes.

He gave a most appealing look to Don Mariano, whose kind heart immediately responded by saying to his wife:

“If it is love-making, and you are to guess at it, there won't be much delay, for no woman was ever slow to guess such matters. I know you understood me very quickly.”

“Hear him! but please do not learn such frightful lessons in vanity and conceit,” said she, laughing again, but blushing also.

“I know she understood what I meant, when I would ride eighty miles on horseback for the pleasure of serenading her. To do that, or jump aboard the steamer after it is under way, means about the same thing, I think.”

Don Mariano kept talking in that strain until Clarence recovered his composure.

He then said: “I have been your ambassador before this queen, and her majesty has granted your petition. So you have nothing more to do now than to fall on your knees and kiss her hands.”

Whereupon, down went Clarence again on his knees, and seizing her hand, kissed it warmly and repeatedly, in spite of DoÑa Josefa's protestations, saying:

“That will do. Once is enough—once is enough. Reserve your kisses for younger hands.”

“I'll warrant he has plenty more in reserve,” Don Mariano said, laughing.

And it was true, for Clarence was so happy that he could have kissed the entire Alamar family—all, all—irrespective of age or sex.

The days now passed pleasantly and peacefully enough at the Alamar rancho.

Don Mariano knew that he would have to go through many disagreeable scenes with the squatters when the appeal should be dismissed, but as the law would be on his side finally, he confidently hoped to see the end of his troubles, intending to allow the squatters to keep their homes, provided only that they would fence their crops and pay their own taxes.

Clarence reconciled himself to wait until the fall to take that ring which Mercedes had told him to bring himself. This would be the most judicious plan, as he would thus take the necessary time to have the mines prospected and to decide about their purchase, before going to New York. In the meanwhile he worked in the garden, fenced and prepared ground for planting grapevines and fruit trees. He read and wrote love letters, and passed nearly all of his evenings at the Alamar house, holding Milord, who always came to be held by him as soon as he arrived.

The telegram from Fred Haverly came in due time, a few words only, but how exhilarating they were to Clarence, making his pulse beat high.

It read thus:

“Prospect splendid. Far better than described. Have written to-day. Hurrah!”

Like the telegram, Fred's letter came promptly in the early part of August.

The ledge was so wide, Fred said, that the miners had sunk their prospect shaft in the center of the vein, and consequently all the rock taken out was a high-grade ore. That he was going to run two drifts, and would then have a more correct idea of the character of the mine, its volume, formation, etc. Only a small portion of the hanging wall was visible at the entrance, as the shaft went immediately into the very heart of the broad vein.

“But,” Fred added, “If the mine proves to be one-tenth as good as it seems, ‘there are millions in it,’ literally.”

So Clarence must make up his mind to wait developments.

In the meantime the settlers had harvested their crops of hay and grain, and were hauling them to town. Don Mariano, as a matter of course, had paid dearly for these same crops, with the sacrifice of his fine cows, besides very heavy taxes. He had sent half of his cattle away to the sierra, and those left had been as carefully guarded as possible, but still the dumb brutes would be attracted by the green grain, and would obey the law of nature, to go and eat it, in utter disregard of the “no fence law.”

Thus, every night the fusilade of the law-abiding settlers would be heard, as they, to protect their “rights under the law,” would be shooting the Don's cattle all over the rancho. In vain did he, or his sons and servants, ride out to find who fired. There was never a man to be seen with a gun or rifle in his hands; it never could be proved that any one of these peaceful farmers had fired a shot. The cattle were killed, but who had done it no one could say. Day after day the vaqueros would come in and report the number of cattle found shot, dead or wounded, that morning, and Gabriel would make a note of the number; at the end of the month he would add these figures, and the Don had the sad satisfaction of knowing how many of his cattle were killed under the law. For although the law did not enjoin upon any one to kill cattle in this manner, the effect was the same as if it had said so plainly.

“I think Southern California isn't such a very dry country as people try to make it out. The settlers on this rancho, I reckon, will realize nice little sums on their crops this year,” Mr. Darrell observed at breakfast one morning.

“And with their little sums they should pay the Don for the cattle they have shot. It is a shame to take his land, have him pay taxes, and then kill his cattle also,” replied Mrs. Darrell. “Those heartless people keep me awake sometimes with their cattle-shooting. I think the Don and his family are too kind to bear all these daily (and nightly) outrages so patiently.”

“I thought you had given it up as a bad job to be the Don's champion, Mrs. Darrell,” said her husband.

“If by being his champion I could save his cattle there would be no danger of giving up my championship. What I regret is that my sympathy should be so useless.”

“Never mind, mother, the Don will soon have the power to drive all this canaille out of his rancho,” Clarence said.

“Do you include me with the canaille?” asked Darrell.

“No, father, I do not. I suppose you have not forgotten you promised Don Mariano to pay for the land you located when the title should be approved.”

“When there is no more dispute about it,” Darrell explained.

“I understood you had said that when the government did not dispute it. We all know that the squatters will dispute it as long as they can find lawyers, who for a fee will fight against right and justice,” Clarence said.

“I will keep to what I said—but I am not going to have my words construed to suit everybody,” Darrell said, doggedly.

“How is the Don to have power to drive off the settlers, Clary? Tell us,” Webster inquired.

“Don't you tell him, Clary. He'll go and tell it to the squatters,” Willie interposed.

“And since when did you learn to call the settlers squatters, Master Willie? Ain't you a squatter yourself?” asked Mr. Darrell.

“No, I'm not. Am I, mamma?” asked Willie.

“I hope not, my dear. If I thought any one in this family were to deserve such a name I would not have come down to this place,” Mrs. Darrell replied.

“What is a squatter, anyhow, mamma?” Clementine inquired.

“A squatter is a person who locates a land claim on land that belongs to some other person,” Mrs. Darrell explained.

“On land that other persons say belongs to them, but which land, as no one knows to whom it belongs, it is free to be occupied by any American citizen,” Mr. Darrell added with emphasis.

“There you are again mixing the wilful squatter with the honest settler, who pre-empts his land legitimately. The dividing line between the squatter and the settler is very clear to any one who honestly wants to see it,” Mrs. Darrell said, and three or four of her children started to explain how well they did see that line.

“It is as plain as the nose on your face,” Willie's voice said in a high key. “The honest settler only pre-empts government land, but the squatter goes into anybody's land before he knows who has title.”

“Bravo!” cried Everett; “you got it straight this time.”

“Then a squatter is a land thief?” Clementine inquired.

“That is a severe term,” Alice observed.

“But isn't it true?” Clementine argued.

“No, because the squatter might not intend to steal. He might mistakenly take land which belongs to some one else. The intention is what makes the action a theft or not,” Mrs. Darrell explained.

“But why should they make such mistakes? Ain't somebody there to say to whom the land belongs?” Master Willie inquired.

“Yes, but that somebody might not be believed, Master Willie, and there is where the shoe pinches,” Webster explained.

“Ah!” was Willie's exclamation, and he became thoughtful.

“I give it up,” said Clementine with a sigh, making them all laugh.

“That is a very wise resolve,” Darrell observed.

“I've got it, papa,” Willie's voice again was heard saying.

“Well, what have you got?” his father asked.

“The government ought to say first to whom the land belongs, and not let anybody take a single acre until the government says it is public land. Isn't that the way you say, Clarence?”

“Oh, you are quoting Clarence. I thought it was your own original idea you were giving us,” Darrell said, and all laughed at Willie.

But he held his ground, saying; “It is Clarence's idea, but I only understood it this minute, so now it is mine.”

“That is right, Willie. That is the way correct ideas are disseminated and take root,” Everett said.

“And erroneous ones, too,” Darrell added.

“Which is the correct, papa?” asked Willie.

“Your mind is even more inquisitive than usual this morning, Willie,” said Jane.

“Suppose it is, do you object to it?” Willie queried.

“I think you had better be a lawyer,” Lucy suggested.

“I mean to be. Then I will be the Don's lawyer.”

“But suppose he don't want you?” asked Webster.

“But he will, for I will be honest.”

“Will he want you if you are stupid, only because you are honest?” asked Clementine.

“I hate girls, they talk so silly,” said Willie, again bringing the laugh on himself.