A soothing peace possessed me, as I listened to the ringing of the old bells. I left quietly the bedside of the aged sleeper to kneel a moment later by that of my child. The healthy loveliness which I beheld completed my restoration. As I kissed the dainty, dimpled hands, and laid my cheek against the yellow curls, her warm, sweet breath infused my flagging circulation with the energy of love.

I no longer forgot my plans for the morning. Hastily dressing, I gathered as quickly as possible the various mysterious parcels secreted about my room, glancing occasionally at Marjorie to be sure that no possum slumbers hid beneath deceitful lashes. Satisfied that my schemes were unsuspected, I fled eagerly, with ladened arms, from the silent house out into the crisp, inspiring air of the sacred morning.

The sun was now well up. As it rose, it touched with magical radiance the most distant reaches of the Christmas landscape.

Reverently I lingered, enthralled with the breath of Judea. Standing beneath the old palms I listened to an anthem, led by a lark and sustained by the lowing cattle, who seemed to tell, as at first, the birth of the long-expected Saviour; while the rosebuds reflected from jeweled hearts his pure parables.

About me the purple mountains gleamed with the fresh, cool touch of the night. Between twin spurs, resting against the bosom of the sky, snow had gathered, until in the distant outline a pure, white lamb appeared, slain for the holy festival.

Old Baldy, the high priest of the morning, until now had withheld the fullness of his majesty. Suddenly the sun with golden shafts rent far asunder the misty veil that had enveloped his hoary summit. Transfigured with supernatural glory, the morning seemed to pause for one still moment, as if to receive his benediction.

"I, too, have been to the early celebration," I said to my heart, as I turned reluctantly to the pressing demands of the now inaugurated day.

Hastily I hid the packages in various secret nooks, while I decorated a great white rose tree with cornucopias and knicknacks.

Hardly had the last bauble been hung upon the magnificent Christmas tree when I heard the plaintive voice of my child.

I hurried to the house to find the little girl upon the bed, struggling bravely with her shoes and stockings.

"Did the fairies come?" she demanded, springing into my arms for her Christmas kiss.

For my answer I carried her to the window, through which she beheld the white rose tree.

"See," I said, "how good are the good little fairies to good little girls."

"May I go as soon as I am dressed and pick the tree?" the child besought, her eyes beaming with expectation.

"Yes," I said, "you may go, but I think the fairies would rather you would wait until our kind DoÑa Maria and Mariposilla return from church. The DoÑa Maria must be very weary; she has not slept all night for watching at the bedside of the grandmother. I think I know a little girl who might help to get breakfast, so that when the DoÑa Maria returns she can refresh herself at once with some hot coffee. I wonder if the little girl's name is Marjorie? Or perhaps I am mistaken; I may have forgotten her name."

Marjorie took one long, regretful look at the rose-tree; then from her baby heart there escaped a tragic little sigh that was half a sob. "Please, dear mamma," she said, bravely, "I will mind the fairies."

Fortunately for both mother and child, their resolution was not long tested.

It took but a few moments to prepare the toast and coffee, for Antonio had unexpectedly lighted the fire and filled the water kettle. Before our simple meal was quite ready the DoÑa Maria and Mariposilla had arrived.

It was amusing to witness the DoÑa Maria's mortification when she perceived that I had cooked the breakfast; her distress was genuine when she declared that the SeÑora would certainly be ill. "I am ashamed that I should have remained so long," she apologized. "The SeÑora should not have arisen until our return. It is ill fortune that she has not permitted me to prepare her a dainty holiday breakfast."

"Dear DoÑa Maria," I entreated, "why will you deplore what is already accomplished? I have told you often that a simple breakfast is all that I require, and our frolic has given me a fine appetite. See," I urged, "is my toast not a delicious brown? Make haste and enjoy the coffee, or I shall be greatly disappointed."

"The SeÑora is most kind," the DoÑa Maria replied, seating herself submissively. With her dark hand she brushed away a tear. "We are ever happy, my daughter and I, that we have known one so good and gentle," she added, feelingly.

Marjorie and Mariposilla had by this time declared it impossible to resist longer the fascinations of the rose-tree, tantalizingly visible through the open door. Gaining permission, they scampered away, followed by the hounds. The dogs appeared to understand the occasion. They ran forward, doubling over with excitement, as though expecting to find a jack-rabbit suspended from a bough of the Christmas tree. The picture was a pretty one, and none of us enjoyed it more than the DoÑa Maria, who soon left the table and joined the children in their merry hunt for the hidden parcels.

Marjorie led her about at will, compelling the sedate woman to stoop and caper as she had not done for years. When the gifts had all been discovered, we arranged them in rows upon the Bermuda grass, preparatory to the untying of strings and ribbons.

Marjorie's row was long and diversified, while Mariposilla declared that she had never before received so many gifts at one time.

"It is because we are so good," Marjorie explained; "for you know that fairies never bring presents to naughty children, only just stones and mud."

We all laughed as we continued our occupation each untying in turn a parcel marked with the name of the recipient and the good fairy who had been responsible for its safe delivery from the foot of Old Baldy.

With each discovery the air was flooded with shrieks of approval. Marjorie rejoiced over every little treasure, while Mariposilla embraced us excitedly at each happy surprise.

Even the DoÑa Maria grew artlessly gay, appearing to forget that the grandmother might soon awaken, to be cared for like an infant, and that Christmas was now but a colorless counterfeit of years past.

"Ah!" exclaimed the sympathetic mother, when Mariposilla held up for admiration a little silver bracelet; "it is almost like the happiness of the old days. Not the same; for the Spanish gave not gifts, but the good cheer is most sweet. I grieve," she continued, "that the SeÑora and my child should not have known those once glad days—now gone forever. Then, all went about from rancho to rancho, free from sorrow; always joyful in abundance. But the holiday is no more what it once was—so full of mirth and sweet enjoyment for both old and young; yet ever sacred, for none dared forget to go to the old church when the bells rang lovingly the birth of the Holy Child.

"Dear SeÑora," she continued, her dark eyes intensifying with awakening memories; "could you have seen the beauty of the old Spanish life, then, with thy gentle heart, tears would now fall for those of us who are left."

With increasing melancholy she explained that her child refused to grieve for the departed glory of her family.

"I am often miserable when I remember how different I once felt, so full of joy and pride when I dreamed that my children would thank always the sweet Mother for the nobility of their father's name. Yet I blame not Mariposilla; for she saw not my husband, Don Arturo. Her life was too late to know of his goodness and beauty. I could forgive always her thoughtless indifference, if only sometimes she would weep when I show her the riding jacket embroidered with gold, and the botas of exceeding richness, once worn by her dear father. But she is cold, and understands not what she has lost. She would even profane the precious shawls of her grandmother, urging that some be sold to envious Americans for gold!"

Poor DoÑa Maria! I feared that her transient happiness had fled. But she soon controlled the dash of bitterness that tinctured for a moment her reminiscences, and continued to describe the wonderful days, once enjoyed by her now scattered and Americanized people.

"Think not, dear SeÑora, that I am ungrateful," she begged, sweetly. "It is perhaps best that my child should grow like the Americans. Her older kinsmen will soon be gone; the younger ones, like herself, care not to continue in the old way, seeking to marry with strangers, forgetting often even the religion of their childhood."

I was loath to interrupt the gentle complaints of the DoÑa Maria; for beneath the shadow of the venerable palms her sweet, low, sympathetic voice enthralled me with realistic glimpses of her picturesque past.

Tears dropped upon the brown cheeks when she told how she had knelt for the communion that same morning, alone with her child, surrounded no longer by dear, familiar faces.

"How different it once was!" she explained eagerly. "How sad, yet good, to remember how once the altar rail was thronged with near relatives and loving friends. To think how joyful were our hearts when we had received and could go absolved from the cold church into the warm sunshine, there to speak pleasant kind words and wish to each other a merry day. How beautiful to listen to the gay greetings of the young, to grasp the hands of dear ones, and hear, upon all sides, 'Feliz noche buena!'"

"Come," she said, rising; "my mother still sleeps, and I will show you the silken shawls, the lace mantillas, and the embroidered garments of our family."

Gladly I followed her to the little chamber, where she opened reverently a huge chest, from which she drew, one by one, the beautiful relics of her prosperity.

With loving care she took from scented wrappings gorgeous shawls of crÊpe, blooming on both sides with rich, yet delicately wrought flowers, mantillas of wonderful lace, and dainty bits of Spanish finery, that brought to my lips repeated exclamations of wonder and delight.

"I am happy to have shown the SeÑora my treasures," she said, flushing with pleasure, as she drew, from a silken bag embroidered with silver, a scarf which she had reserved until the last, as the most precious and beautiful heirloom in her possession.

Draping it pathetically about her somber figure, she urged me to admire the delicate green which displayed so marvellously the butterflies embroidered in pink and gold, studded with real jewels.

"See!" she cried, caressing tenderly the clinging fabric; "is it not wonderful! So bright and sparkling after all the sad years!"

"The SeÑora will understand how dear is the scarf of the butterflies, when I relate to her its story, explaining how it came from Spain, the gift of my husband's grandmother; how I wore it to church upon our wedding day to shield from the sun the neck and arms that were once my foolish pride; how, when we were returning from our marriage, mounted upon horses decked with roses and splendid with silver and jewels, my husband, desirous that all should see the magnificence of my satin gown, caught away playfully the scarf, throwing it about his own shoulders, while he declared that all must behold the beauty of his bride. After a time, when our child was born, my husband brought again the scarf of the butterflies, commanding my mother to wrap it about our boy, that he might carry him upon the veranda to be admired by our assembled household.

"Ah! SeÑora, was not my husband proud the day he went with a company to the church for the christening of our child? Many relatives had arrived from Los Angeles and from Ventura, so that our house was overflowing with cheer. The kitchen and the court were gay with preparations from morning until evening. Although I could not go myself to the church, my husband told me joyfully how the dear old Father who had married us the year before took in his arms our boy, blessing him with double certainty when he kissed his little cheek.

"But too beautiful to live was our baby, and in one short year we gave him tearfully to the sweet Mother of Heaven, who heard not our prayers when our little one lay ill. Two more sons, grown almost to manhood, we lost; and then my brave husband, who had ever grieved sorely for his boys, went too.

"I alone remained with my mother and my unborn child, who came not until her father had been five months dead.

"See," she said, wiping away the tears that suffused her great, sad eyes; "see, dear SeÑora, the little petticoats of my dead babies, all now yellow with age.

"Who will care, when I am gone, for the worthless garments of my little ones? Surely not Mariposilla, for she understands not why I should still grieve, after the long years that have passed.

"She loves, however, the scarf of the butterflies, and begs often to possess it. When I am taken she may do as she desires with it, for it will then be her own, to treasure or to resign unto strangers.

"Yet I pray that she may always hold sacred the gift of her father's grandmother; for she, too, was carried to her christening wrapped in the beautiful shawl.

"Well do I remember how sore was my heart the day that my mother went alone to the church with my fatherless child. So ill was I, that I cared not even to name my little daughter, entreating my mother to consult with the priest, who might choose for us.

"But my good mother was wiser than I, and when she had thought much she remembered the butterflies upon the beautiful scarf, and how my husband, Don Arturo, had delighted to behold them glistening in the sunlight when I first wore the shawl to my bridal; how, afterwards, he insisted that his children should first be shown to his household wrapped in the splendid gift of his grandmother. Wisely she remembered these things, and when, weeks after, I asked her the name of my child, I wept for joy when she said, 'She is Mariposilla.'"

Tenderly the dark hand folded and replaced in its embroidered bag the precious scarf of the butterflies. Tearfully she laid it away by the side of the sparkling riding-jacket and gorgeous botas of the dead Arturo, while she reverently closed the old chest, relegating to its scented depths the fading remnants of her former grandeur, together with the sad, sweet memories of her poetic life.