It was happily clear at breakfast that Stephen Lorimer had more or less made his peace—and Honor's peace—with his wife. Like his beloved Job, whom he knew almost by heart, he had ordered his cause and filled his mouth with arguments, and Mildred Lorimer had come to see something rather splendidly romantic in her daughter's quest for her true love. Stephen, who never appeared at breakfast, was down on time, heavy-eyed and flushed, and Honor saw with a pang, in the stern morning light, that he was middle-aged. Her gay young stepfather! His spirit had put a period at nineteen, but his tired body was settling back into the slack lines of the late fifties. Her mother had changed but little, thanks to the unruffled serenity of her spirit and the skillful hands which cared for her.

"Muzzie," Honor had said, meeting her alone in the morning, "you are a marvel! Why, you haven't a single gray hair!"

"It's—well, I suppose it's because I have it taken care of," said Mrs. Lorimer, flushing faintly. "It's not a dye. It's not in the least a dye—it simply keeps the original color in the hair, that's all. I wouldn't think of using a dye. In the first place, they say it's really dangerous,—it seeps into the brain and affects your mind, and in the second place it gives your face a hard look, always,—and besides, I don't approve of it. But this thing Madame uses for me is perfectly harmless, Honor."

"It's perfectly charming, Muzzie," said her daughter, giving her a hearty hug. It was a good world this morning. The breakfast table was gay, and Kada beamed. Takasugi had made countless pop-overs—Honor's favorites—and Kada was slipping in and out with heaping plates of them. "Pop-all-overs" the littlest Lorimer called them, steaming, golden-hearted. Honor had sung for them and the Old Guard the night before and even the smallest of the boys was impressed and was treating her this morning with an added deference which flowered in many passings of the marmalade and much brotherly banter. The girl herself was radiant. Nothing could be very wrong in a world like this. Suppose Jimsy had slipped once—twice—half a dozen times, when she was far away across the water? One swallow didn't make a spring and one slip (or several) didn't make a "Wild King" out of Jimsy. She was going to find him and talk it over and straighten it out and bring him back here where he belonged, where they both belonged, where they would stay. His expulsion from Stanford really simplified matters, when you came to think of it; now there need be no tiresome talk of waiting until he graduated from college. And she had not the faintest intention of going back to Italy. Just as soon as Jimsy could find something to do (and her good Stepper would see to that) they would be married and move into the old King house, and how she would love opening it up to the sun and air and making it gay with new colors! All this in her quiet mind while she breakfasted sturdily with her noisy tribe. Good to be with them again, better still to be coming back to them, to stay with them, to live beside them, always.

Her train went at ten and the boys would be in school and her mother had an appointment with the lady whose ministrations kept her hair at its natural tint and Honor would not hear of her breaking it, so it was her stepfather only who took her to the station. She was rather glad of that and it made her put an unconscious extra fervor, remorsefully, into her farewells to the rest. Just as she was leaving her room there was a thump on her door and a simultaneous opening of it. Ted, her eldest Carmody brother, came in and closed the door behind him. He was a Senior at L. A. High, a football star of the second magnitude and a personable youth in all ways, and her heart warmed to him.

"Ted,—dear! I thought you'd gone to school!"

"I'm just going. Sis,—I"—he came close to her, his bonny young face suddenly scarlet—"I just wanted to say—I know why you're going down there, and—and I'm for you a million! He's all right, old Jimsy. Don't you let anybody tell you he isn't. I—you're a sport to pike down there all by yourself. You're all right, Sis! I'm strong for you!"

"Ted!" The distance between them melted; she felt the hug of his hard young arms and there was a lump in her throat and tears in her eyes, but she fought them back. He would be aghast at her if she cried. He wouldn't be for her a million any longer. She must not break down though she felt more like it than at any time since her arrival. She kept silent and let him pat her clumsily and heavily till she could command her voice. "I'm glad you want me to go, Teddy."

"You bet I do. You stick, Sis! And don't you let Carter spill the beans!"

"Why, Ted, he——"

"You keep an eye on that bird," said the boy, grimly. "You keep your lamps lit!"

She repeated his words to her stepfather as they drove to the station. "Why do you suppose he said that, Stepper?"

Stephen Lorimer shrugged. "I don't think he meant anything specific, T. S., but you know the kids have never cared for Carter."

"I know; it's that he isn't their type. They haven't understood him."

"Or—it's that they have."

"Stepper! You, too?" Honor was driving and she did not turn her head to look at him, but he knew the expression of her face from the tone of her voice. "Do you mean that, seriously?"

"I think I do, T. S. Look here,—we might as well talk things over straight from the shoulder this morning. Shall we?"

"Please do, Stepper." She turned into a quieter street and drove more slowly, so that she was able to face him for an instant, her face troubled.

"Want me to drive?"

"No,—I like the feel of the wheel again, after so long. You talk, Stepper."

"Well, T. S., I've no tangible charge to make against Carter, save that his influence has been consistently bad for Jimsy since the first day he limped into our ken. Consistently and—persistently bad, T. S. You know—since we're not dealing in persiflage this morning—that Carter is quite madly, crazily, desperately in love with you?"

"I—yes, I suppose that's what you'd call it, Stepper. He—rather lost his head last summer,—the night before you sailed."

"But the night before we sailed," said her stepfather, drawing from his neatly card-indexed memory, "it was with me that you held a little last session."

"Yes,—but on my way upstairs. The lift had stopped, you know. I was frightfully angry at him and said something cruel, but the next morning he looked so white and wretched and wrote me such a pathetic letter, asking me to forgive and forget and all that sort of thing, and I sent him a wire to the steamer, saying I would."

"Ah! That was his telegram. We wondered."

"And he's been very nice since, in the few letters I've had from him."

"I daresay. But Ted's right, Top Step. In the parlance of the saints you do 'want to keep your lamps lit.' Carter, denied health and strength and physical glory, has had everything else he's ever wanted except you,—and he hasn't given you up yet."

Honor nodded, her face flushed, her eyes straight ahead.

"And now—more plain talk, T. S. This is a fine, sporting, rather spectacular thing you're doing, going down to Mexico after Jimsy, and I'm absolutely with you, but—if the worst should be true—if the boy really has gone to pieces—you won't marry him?"

"No," said the girl steadily, after an instant's pause. "If Jimsy should be—like his father—I wouldn't marry him, Stepper. There shouldn't be—any more 'Wild Kings.' But I'd never marry any one else, and—oh, but it would be a long time to live, Stepper, dear!"

"I'm betting you'll find him in good shape,—and keep him so, Top Step. At any rate, however it comes out, you'll always be glad you went."

"I know I will."

"Yes; you're that sort of woman, T. S.,—the 'whither thou goest' kind. I believe women may roughly be divided into two classes; those who passively let themselves be loved; those who actively love. The former have the easier time of it, my dear." His tired eyes visioned his wife, now closeted with Madame. He sighed once and then he smiled. "And they get just as much in return, let me tell you,—more, I really believe. But I want you to promise me one thing."

"What?"

"That you'll never give up your singing. Keep it always, T. S. There'll be times when you need it—to run away to—to hide in."

She nodded, soberly.

His eyes began to kindle. "Every woman ought to have something! Men have. It should be with women as with men—love a thing apart in their lives, not their whole existence! Then they wouldn't agonize and wear on each other so! I believe there's a chapter in that, for my book, Top Step."

"I'm sure there is," said Honor, warmly. They had reached the station now and a red cap came bounding for her bags. "And I won't even try to thank you, Stepper, dear, for all——"

"Don't be a goose, T. S.,—look! There are your Mexicans!"

Honor followed his eyes. "Aren't they delicious?" They hurried toward them. "The girl's adorable!"

"They all are." Stephen Lorimer performed the introductions with proper grace and seriousness and they all stood about in strained silence until the SeÑora was nervously sure they ought to be getting on board. "Might as well, T. S.," her stepfather said. She was looking rather white, he thought, and they might as well have the parting over. Honor was very steady about it. "Good-by, Stepper. I'll write you at once, and you'll keep us posted about Mr. King?" She stood on the observation platform, waving to him, gallantly smiling, and he managed his own whimsical grin until her train curved out of sight. One in a thousand, his Top Step. How she had added to the livableness of life for him since the day she had gravely informed her mother that she believed she liked him better than her own father, that busy gentleman who had stayed so largely Down Town at The Office! Stephen Lorimer was too intensely and healthily interested in the world he was living in to indulge in pallid curiosity about the one beyond, but now his mind entertained a brief wonder ... did he know, that long dead father of Honor Carmody, about this glorious girl of his? Did he see her now, setting forth on this quest; this pilgrimage to her True Love, as frankly and freely as she would have gone to nurse him in sickness? He grinned and gave himself a shake as he went back to the machine,—he had lost too much sleep lately. He would turn in for a nap before luncheon; Mildred would not be out of her Madame's deft hands until noon.

The family of MenÉndez y GarcÍ­a beamed upon Honor with shy cordiality. SeÑor MenÉndez was a dapper little gentleman, got up with exquisite care from the perfect flower on his lapel to his small cloth-topped patent leather shoes, but his wife was older and larger and had a tiny, stern mustache which made her seem the more male and dominant figure of the two. Mariquita, the girl, was all father, and she had been a year in a Los Angeles convent. The mother wore rich but dowdy black and an impossible headgear, a rather hawklike affair which appeared to have alighted by mistake on the piles of dusky hair where it was shakily balancing itself, but Mariquita's narrow blue serge was entirely modish, and her tan pumps, and sheer amber silk hose, and her impudent hat. The SeÑor spent a large portion of his time in the smoker and the SeÑora bent over a worn prayer book or murmured under her breath as her fingers slipped over the beads in her lap, but the girl chattered unceasingly. Her English was fluent but she had kept an intriguing accent.

"Ees he not beautiful, Mees Carmody, my PÁpa?" She pushed the accent forward to the first syllable. "And my poor Madrecita of a homely to chill the blood? But a saint, my mawther. Me, I am not so good. Also gracias a Dios, I am not so——" she leaned forward to regard herself in the narrow strip of mirror between the windows and—a wary eye on the SeÑora—applied a lip stick to her ripe little mouth. She wanted at once to know about Honor's sweethearts. "A fe mia—in all your life but one novio? Me, I have now seex. So many have I since I am twelve years I can no longer count for you!" She shrugged her perilously plump little shoulders. "One! Jus' like I mus' have a new hat, I mus' have a new novio!"

They were all a little formal with her until after they had left El Paso and crossed the Mexican border at Juarez, when their manner became at once easy, hospitable, proprietary. They pointed out the features of the landscape and the stations where they paused, they plied her unceasingly with the things they purchased every time the train hesitated long enough for vendadors to hold up their wares at the windows,—fresas (the famous strawberries in little leaf baskets), higos (fat figs), helado (a thin and over-sweet ice cream), and the delectable Cajeta de Celaya, the candy made of milk and fruit paste and magic. They were behind time and the train seemed to loiter in serenest unconcern. SeÑor MenÉndez came back from the smoker with a graver face every day. The men who came on board from the various towns brought tales of unrest and feverish excitement, of violence, even, in some localities.

If his friends could not be sure of meeting Honor at CÓrdoba and driving her to the Kings' hacienda the SeÑor himself would escort her, after seeing his wife and daughter home. Honor assured him that she was not afraid, that she would be quite safe, and she was thoroughly convinced of it herself; nothing would be allowed to happen to her on her way to Jimsy.

"Your father is so good," she said gratefully to Mariquita.

"Yes," she smiled. "My PÁpa ees of a deeferent good; he ees glad-good, an' my Madrecita ees sad-good. Me—I am bad-good! You know, I mus' go to church wiz my mawther, but my PÁpa, he weel not go. He nevair say 'No' to my mawther; he ees too kind. Jus' always on the church day he is seek. So seek ees my poor PÁpa on the church day!" She flung back her head and laughed and showed her short little white teeth.

But SeÑor MenÉndez had an answer to his telegram on the morning of the day on which they were to part; his friend, the eminent Profesor, Hidalgo Morales, accompanied by his daughter, SeÑorita Refugio, would without fail be waiting for Miss Carmody when her train reached CÓrdoba and would see her safely into the hands of her friends. Honor said good-by reluctantly to the family of MenÉndez y GarcÍa; the beautiful little father kissed her hand and the grave mother gave her a blessing and Mariquita embraced her passionately and kissed her on both cheeks and produced several entirely genuine tears. She saw them greeted by a flock of relatives and friends on the platform but they waved devotedly to her as long as she could see them. Then she had a quiet and solitary day and in the silence the old anxieties thrust out their heads again, but she drove them sturdily back, forcing herself to pay attention to the picture slipping by the car window,—the lovely languid tierra caliente which was coming to meet her. The old Profesor and his daughter were waiting for her; shy, kindly, earnest, less traveled than the MenÉndez', with a covered carriage which looked as if it might be a relic of the days of Maximilian. Conversation drowsed on the long drive to the Kings' coffee plantation; the SeÑorita spoke no English and Honor's High School Spanish got itself annoyingly mixed with Italian, and the old gentleman, after minute inquiries as to her journey and the state of health of his cherished friend, SeÑor Felipe Hilario MenÉndez y GarcÍa, sank into placid thought. It was a ridiculous day for winter, even to a Southern Californian, and the tiny villages through which they passed looked like gay and shabby stage settings.

The Profesor roused at last. "We arrive, SeÑorita," he announced, with a wave of his hand. They turned in at a tall gateway of lacy ironwork and Honor's heart leaped—"El Pozo." Richard King.

"The name is given because of the old well," the Mexican explained. "It is very ancient, very deep—without bottom, the peÓns believe." They drew up before a charming house of creamy pink plaster and red tiles, rioted over by flowering vines. "I wait but to make sure that SeÑor or SeÑora King is at home." A soft-eyed Mexican woman came to the door and smiled at them, and there was a rapid exchange of liquid sentence. "They are both at home, SeÑorita. We bid you farewell."

The servant, wide-eyed and curious, had come at his command to take Honor's bags.

"Oh—but—surely you'll wait? Won't you come in and rest? It was such a long, warm drive, and you must be tired."

He bowed, hat in hand, shaking his handsome silver head. "We leave you to the embraces of your friends, SeÑorita. One day we will do ourselves the honor to call upon you, and SeÑor and SeÑora King, whom it is our privilege to know very slightly. For the present, we are content to have served you."

"Oh," said Honor in her hearty and honest voice, holding out a frank hand, "this is the kindest country! Every one has been so good to me! I wish I could thank you enough!"

The old gentleman stood very straight and a dark color surged up in his swarthy face. "Then, dear young lady, you will perhaps have the graciousness to say a pleasant word for us in that country of yours which does not love us too well! You will perhaps say we are not all barbarians." He gave an order to his coachman and the quaint old carriage turned slowly and precisely and started on its long return trip, the Profesor, still bareheaded, bowing, his daughter beaming and kissing her hand. Honor held herself rigidly to the task of seeing them off. Then—Jimsy! Where was he? She had had a childish feeling that he would be instantly visible when she got there; she had come from Italy to Mexico,—from Florence to a coffee plantation beyond CÓrdoba in the tierra caliente to find him,—and journeys ended in lovers' meeting, every wise man's son—and daughter—knew. The nods and becks and wreathed smiles of the serving woman brought her back to earth.

"SeÑora King?" She asked, dutifully, for her hostess—her unconscious hostess—first.

"Si SeÑorita! Pronto!" The servant beckoned her into a dim, cool sala and disappeared. "Well, I know what that means," Honor told herself. "'Right away.' Oh, I hope it's right away!"

But it was not. The Kings, like all sensible people, were at their siesta; twenty racking moments went by before they came in. Richard King was older than Jimsy's father but he had the same look of race and pride, and his wife was a plain, rather tired-looking Englishwoman with very white teeth and broodingly tender blue eyes which belied the briskness of her manner.

"I am Honor Carmody."

"You are——" Mrs. King came forward, frowning a little.

"I—I am engaged to your nephew—to Jimsy King. I think you must have heard of me."

"My dear, of course we have! How very nice to see you! But—how—and where did you——"

The girl interrupted breathlessly. "Oh, please,—I'll tell you everything, in a minute. But I must know about him! I came from Italy because—because of his trouble at college. Is he—is he——" she kept telling herself that she was Honor Carmody, the tomboy-girl who never cried or made scenes—Jimsy's Skipper—her dear Stepper's Top Step; she was not a silly creature in a novel; she would not scream and beg them to tell her—tell her—even if they stood there staring at her for hours longer. And then she heard Richard King saying in a voice very like his brother's, a little like Jimsy's:

"Why, the boy's all right! Ab-so-lutely all right! Isn't he, Madeline? Steady as a clock. That college nonsense——"

And then Honor found herself leaning back in a marvelously comfortable chair by an open window and Mr. King was fanning her slowly and strongly and Mrs. King was making her drink something cool and pungent, and telling her it was the long, hot drive out from CÓrdoba in the heat of the day and that she mustn't try to talk for a little while. Honor obeyed them docilely for what she was sure was half an hour and which was in fact five minutes and then she sat up straight and decisively. "I'm perfectly all right now, thank you. Will you tell me where I can find Jimsy?"

"I expect he's taking his nap down at the old well. I'll send for him. You must be quiet, my dear."

She got to her feet and let them see how steady she was. "Please let me go to him!"

"But Josita will fetch him in less time, my dear, and we'll have Carter called, too, and——" Mrs. King stopped abruptly at the look in the girl's eyes. "Josita will show you the way," she said in quite another tone. "You must carry my sunshade and not walk too quickly."

Honor tried not to walk too quickly but she kept catching up with the Mexican serving woman and passing her on the path, and falling back again with a smile of apology, and the woman smiled in return, showing white, even teeth. It was not as long a walk as it seemed, but their pace made it consume ten interminable minutes. At length the twisting walk twisted once more and gave on a cleared space, meltingly green, breathlessly still, an ancient stone well in its center.

Josita gestured with a brown hand. "Alla esta SeÑorito Don Diego! Adios, SeÑorita!"

"Gracias!" Honor managed.

"Te nada!" She smiled and turned back along the way they had come. "It is nothing!" she had said. Nothing to have brought her on the last stage of her long quest! Jimsy was asleep in the deep grass in the shade. She went nearer to him, stepping softly, hardly breathing. He was stretched at ease, his sleeves rolled high on his tanned arms, his tanned throat bare, his crisp hair rolling back from his brow in the old stubborn wave, his thick lashes on his cheek. His skin was as clean and clear as a little boy's; he looked a little boy, sleeping there. She leaned over him and he stirred and sighed happily, as if dimly aware of her nearness. She tried to speak to him, to say—"Jimsy!" but she found she could not manage it, even in a whisper. So she sat down beside him and gathered him into her arms.