Near the Mission of San Diego lived a very wealthy Spaniard and his wife, the most beautiful seÑora in all the country for many miles around.

They had every thing about them to make life pleasant: a fine orange and lemon grove; a large garden, containing olive, almond, peach, and pear trees; indeed, all kinds of fruit and flowers, that the luxurious climate of San Diego produces.

Their house was pleasant, and furnished with all the comforts and many of the luxuries of life; and when God blessed them with a little daughter, they felt as though there was nothing left to wish for. The child resembled her beautiful mamma in features as much as the tiny bud is like the full-blown rose.

The hidalgo had never ceased to regard his wife with that kind of worshipful love so dear to woman’s heart; and his great delight was to watch tenderly over mother and child, that even the slightest wish might not pass ungratified.

As it grew older, the little one learned to recognize the glance of love; and when at last it would open its large dark eyes and look eagerly at the dear papa, and, holding out its tiny hands, crow with all the innocent delight of infancy, he would take the babe in his arms, and all the harsh lines about his mouth softened into smiles. He was happier than any one in the whole country, except the delighted mother, who was never weary of looking upon the darling of her heart.

Gracia and Catrina.

The seÑora was a devout Catholic, and, though she seldom left the child alone with her nurse, as the feast of Corpus Christi approached, she felt that this year, above all others so blessed to her in the birth of her beloved child, she should assist in the celebration. On the morning of the holy day, she gave her treasure, with many charges, into the care of the old servant, bidding her on no account whatever to leave the child, even for a moment. Twice, as she was about leaving, she returned to embrace the little one, with her soft eyes filled with tears. As she covered the face of her babe with kisses, she whispered, “Mamma loves thee. Mijita mia. Foolish mamma trembles to leave thee, yet the divine eye of the Holy Mother will watch over thee. Mia vida, mia vida!” Then came the sound of music, and the voice of the hidalgo calling her; so with a last embrace, with mingled smiles and tears, the young mother parted from her little one, for the first time since its birth.

There was to be a large procession formed upon the plaza, where rustic booths were built, and ornamented according to the taste and wealth of the devout, who often sacrificed the comfort of weeks, to be able to give this tribute of honor to the Holy Mother and the Blessed Christ.

Pictures of the Madonna were placed upon the rude altars, entwined with beautiful wreaths, while rare flowers shed their rich incense from costly vases. The seÑora had spared neither money nor pains.

“It is in honor of the Merciful Christ—the Redeemer of the world,” she said; “let every thing be as worthy of His greatness as possible; it will fall far short of what my thankful heart would offer.”

Pictures from the hands of the old masters were brought from the house, with tapestry and fringes; and every thing that the luxurious climate produced was added, until nothing seemed wanting to make it the one booth of enchanting beauty.

The seÑora superintended the arrangement of all, while the seÑor sat a little apart, watching with delight the magic workings of her exquisite taste and refinement. All this time the nurse held the infant in her arms, singing quaint old Indian ballads, rocking her to and fro with a soothing motion, till at last the restless fingers were stilled and the pretty eyes closed. The little one slept, and dreamed, no doubt, such dreams as the loving God sends to guileless infancy.

Just then the procession started, and the music fell upon the ear of the young Indian girl who was always near to wait upon old Macata, the nurse.“Macata,” she said, as she started lightly from the mat on which she was sitting, “it touches my heart; I must go! See, the baby sleeps. Nothing can harm it. Come, mother Macata, only for a moment!”

“Nothing can harm it,” said the old Indian, as she laid the child in its little straw cradle, for she, too, loved the festive sight and glad music of the fÊte.

She had wished, of all things, to join the gossips of the mission on the plaza, but, since that could not be, she saw no reason, while the child was sleeping so sweetly, that she should not go to the garden wall, and for a few moments catch a passing glimpse of the gay procession. She bent over the child, patting it softly with her great strong hand, and singing in a low voice:—

The little form was so still and peaceful. Surely there could be no danger! So the nurse, who loved her dearly, knelt down and kissed her very lightly, saying, in the Indian tongue,

“Master of life, preserve the little white rosebud.”

Again she pressed her dusky lips to the sweet little face, so peaceful in its innocent repose, then ran away through the garden to the roadside, with her companion, the bright-eyed Indian girl.

It was a rare sight in the eyes of these simple Indians, that long procession, with its swelling music and waving banners. All the Indian lads and maidens in the country were there, dressed in their gala attire, while the bright-colored handkerchiefs and shawls of the more rustic seÑoras, as they rode by on horseback, added not a little to the festive scene.

For full fifteen minutes they sat watching the procession, crouching behind the garden wall, that the seÑora might not see them. Well they knew her eyes would be attracted by the magnetism of love to her child and home.

“See, mother Macata,” said the young girl, sorrowfully, “there are all my mates, while I am here. Oh! how I wish I could go with them!”

Just then the seÑora passed, and, mid all the joy of the occasion, Macata saw a look of deep solicitude in her face as she turned toward the house. “We must go,” said the old woman, taking the hand of the young girl.

“Only one moment,” replied the maiden; and while old Macata yielded, she could not suppress an emotion of uneasiness which the seÑora’s look had nervously roused.

“Now! now!” said the old woman, nervously, as again she clasped the hand of the girl, and dragged her away from the attractive scene.

“You know the baby sleeps,” said the girl, pettishly; but Macata, in her uneasiness, hurried onward.

They passed through the pleasant garden into the silent house, and the softly shaded room where they had left the sleeping child. There stood the dainty little cradle, but the child was gone!

At first they thought some of the servants had returned and taken it to some other room; but when they had searched the whole house, and ran, calling in vain, through the garden, they were almost wild with fright.

Tears streamed from the eyes of the young girl as she looked helplessly into the face of old Macata, who tore her long hair, and moaned piteously. She could not cease looking, although it seemed hopeless.

“In so short a time to disappear, and leave no trace behind to aid this search!” The child! The poor little innocent child she loved so dearly, gone, she knew not where! How could she meet the father and mother?

Thus, full of despair, she ran about, looking in vain, and calling wildly upon her darling, until the seÑor and his wife returned.

To picture the scene that followed would be impossible. The torturing grief of the unhappy father was mingled with all the terrors of suspense, and the desolate heart of the sorrowing mother refused to be comforted. Day and night she sobbed bitterly, “Would that God had taken my baby to himself!”

The whole country was roused. The search continued for many days, till hope died out in every heart. Then it was that a fearful fever seized the mother, exhausted by grief, want of sleep, and the fatigues of a hopeless search. For weeks her life was despaired of; and when at last the fever left her, the light had gone from her eye, the smile from her lips, and the hope of happiness from her heart.

The old Macata never left her side. At first the mother shuddered when she came near; but as she looked upon the hair of the old woman, which, since the loss of the child, had become white as the driven snow, her heart softened, and she shed her first tears upon the bosom of the penitent and sorrowing nurse.

For many weeks the luxury of tears had been denied her, and, from that first bursting of the flood-gates of her grief, she could not bear the old Indian long out of her sight. A mutual sorrow bound their hearts together.

Macata could never do enough for the dear, sad seÑora, but sometimes she would go to her, saying, “Bless me now, seÑora dear; I am going to look for our baby.”

Then the seÑora would bless her, and say, “Go, my poor Macata.”

All day long she roamed through woods, down deep into the shadowy caÑons, or upon the mountain tops. After weary hours, and sometimes days, of fruitless search, she would return, worn and heart-broken with her vain wanderings. Kneeling before the seÑora, weeping, and wringing her hands, she would cry, “Oh! dear seÑora, forgive me! I have not found our baby. I lost it, but I will find it. I will find it before I die, so help me, Wacondah, Great Spirit!”

Often the old woman fell fainting at the feet of her beloved seÑora, who would have her raised tenderly and placed upon the bed, where for hours she sat by her, watching and weeping.

Thus these two sorrowing ones, the broken-hearted mother and the grief-crazed nurse, became very dear to each other.

The father mourned deeply, but to the heart of man time brings its softening balm. He loved his wife fondly, and, for her sake, sometimes tried to waken a hope that the child might be restored to them. Yet within his shadowed heart he mourned the precious one as dead.

Very sadly he missed the tiny outstretched hands that once were sure to greet him, and that radiant little face that was all the world to him; and as months and years went by, whenever he looked upon a little maiden full of grace and beauty, he would press his hand to his heart in sorrow, for “what might have been.”

Sometimes the seÑora, leaning her weary head on his breast, would say: “I shall know my darling, no matter how many years shall pass before we meet.” Then she would clasp her hands, exclaiming: “What if I should die before Macata finds her? Then, oh! then, I shall know her in heaven,” she would bow her head lower upon the beloved breast in prayer. Thus she would remain till the tender voice of the hidalgo aroused her; then she would clasp her thin hands about his neck, and look pityingly into his eyes to see the sorrow of her heart reflected there.

Thus it was with the parents as the years passed sadly by, but all the while the seasons went and came again; the sunshine gladdened the earth; the rainbow beautified the shower; the flowers blossomed in the garden; and young hearts beat happily as theirs upon their bridal day.

On that bright morning of the fÊte of Corpus Christi, which resulted so unfortunately for the hidalgo and the poor seÑora, Macata had not noticed that the garden gate was left unlocked, nor in her haste did she see the crouching form of a fierce-looking woman hiding behind the lime-tree.

No sooner was she and the young girl out of sight than the woman rose stealthily, and gathering up her coarse brown cloak around her, glided swiftly through the garden and into the room where the cradle stood, still moving from the parting motion of Macata’s hand. Glancing hastily around, she snatched up the still sleeping child, and wrapping it in the folds of her cloak, ran out of the garden, away from the road, on through the orange-grove, and before Macata and the girl returned, was far away out of sight.

Still on she went, through the vineyard, and over the hill beyond; nor did she pause for a moment after she entered the thick wood, until miles away in the dusk of the evening, deep down in a caÑon she came to a rude cottage overhung with trees and rocks.

All day long the delicate child had been out in the burning sunshine, tasting nothing but a tortilla moistened in water.

When they entered the cottage she had cried herself to sleep, and her little head rested wearily upon the bosom of the woman who had stolen her from her mother and her happy home.On the floor sat a little girl shelling beans. She was a poor, misshapen child of misfortune, with a sad mark of suffering upon her face, which, when the woman entered, deepened.

“Take this child, Catrina. Put it away anywhere—anywhere out of sight. It is hateful to me.” Then throwing off the brown cloak, and rubbing her hands, she drew near the fire, adding: “Be in a hurry, girl. Give me my supper, for I am tired and hungry.”

The young girl had taken the little one and laid it upon the bed, and, though there was an expression of surprise upon her face, she placed the supper upon the table without speaking. Then, placing chairs, she and the woman sat down together. Still not a word was spoken. By and by, after they had eaten, and the dishes were washed, the hearth swept, and more fagots heaped upon the fire, the girl pointed to the sleeping child.

“Let her be,” said the woman, crossly. “I can not support you in idleness. Go shell your beans.”

The girl placed a cup of milk at the fire, sat down again to her task, and, for a long time, nothing was heard but the crackling pods. At length the woman spoke.

“It is little use in talking to you, Catrina: but I must speak sometimes, and you are the only being I have, about me, and you can not tell what I say. You can not remember, Catrina! Many years ago I was beautiful; I was young. Now I am old, not with years! See this hair once so glossy—look at it.”

She caught out the comb with an angry grasp, and all over her neck and shoulders fell the heavy tangles of long, gray hair.

“I was young, beautiful, and beloved. Oh, it seems an age of years ago! I have been so wretched since. That child’s father caused his death! I lived! God knows how till your father came, and I married him. For love? Oh, no, for the poor protection that woman’s nature craves and a shelter from despair. But even this failed me!

“What a life for both! But I am revenged, ha! ha! They will wait long for their pretty darling, now.” The woman laughed wildly, and such a look of hate and exultation covered her face, that, in the fitful fire-light, was almost fiendish.

Catrina dropped her hands on her lap, and shuddered, while her eyes were fixed upon the wretched woman with a kind of fascination.

“Go to work! go to work! I say, you stupid little witch, what are you staring at? You look as if you were frightened out of the little sense you have.”Again the woman laughed a strange laugh, that grated harshly upon the ear of the unfortunate girl. Tears filled her eyes, but still no reply.

Poor child! she had never spoken one word in her short but sorrowful life. She was only the poor little step-daughter of the woman, and since the death of her father she had been unhappy.

The noise had awakened the little one, and opening her large eyes, she looked around first with wonder, and then with fear, at the strange place and strange faces before her. The woman rose and took her in her arms.

“So, little chick, you are awake, and how do you think your lady mamma feels now, and your proud papa? Ha! ha! he never thought how I felt, when years ago he brought death to my heart, nor will I think of him.”Slowly she began swaying the child to and fro, talking fiercely all the while. The tiny lips of the baby quivered, as, for a moment, she suppressed her cry, then a pitiful wail filled the cottage.

Catrina was preparing the bowl of bread and milk, and as she approached, the little one held out her hands, and when Catrina took her she hid her face in her bosom and sobbed softly. The child was hungry, and as the girl offered her the bread and milk, she ate it eagerly, but all the while her frightened gaze was fixed upon the face of the woman, who seemed to grow uneasy before the pitiful terror of those innocent eyes.

“It is always so now. Even this child shrinks from me, and I don’t mean to harm her. She has her bread and milk here, if it is not in a silver bowl. Ah! my heart is of stone, now—of stone!” and instinctively she folded her arms over her bosom, and, rocking herself, gazed into the fire as though she were reading the future in its fitful embers.

No wonder that the child, used only to tenderness, looked fearfully upon that pale, dark face, grown prematurely old. Her hair still hung over her shoulders, a long and tangled mass, all its purple luster, all its beauty gone forever. There was a strange, wild look about the eyes, and under them a dark, sunken circle. Far into the night she sat brooding over the glowing embers, till they were turned to blackened cinders.

That night Catrina had a more pleasant dream than she had known since her father died.

After the little one had eaten her supper, Catrina undressed her, and wrapping her in a blanket, placed her in her own bed, patting her caressingly with her hand till she fell asleep.

Catrina lay down beside her, and soon she dreamed that an angel came to the cottage and changed the darkness to light, that even her step-mother’s face grew gentle and tender, and her voice soft and low in that blessed presence. Her own weary heart grew light, and as she looked fondly at this angel, full of gratitude for her new-born happiness, she saw only the child before her, but clearly she heard these words, in the well-remembered tones of her father’s voice, saying:—

“This child shall be the angel of the house.” She awoke to find her face bathed in tears, and kissed the baby a hundred times, and in her silence prayed God to bless the darling.

Already the joy of an angel’s presence filled her heart. Poor little Catrina! She was only a child of ten years, yet her face looked pinched, old, and careworn. This was not strange for the work of the cottage fell to her small hands, and there was no one to say: “You have done well, my little Catrina.”

She could not remember her own gentle mother, nor when the step-mother came to them, but she never forgot the sad face of the dear papa, when he used to put his hand upon her tangled hair, saying: “Catrina, you will miss papa; no one else but my poor little desolate Mijita mia, Mijita mia.” Then he would turn to hide the tears that would not be driven back. In those days of illness he was helpless as Catrina in her babyhood.

One day, when the step-mother had been gone since the dawning, the father seemed to sleep, Catrina sat very silently for many hours, for young as she was, she did not wish to disturb poor sick papa when sleeping. She grew very weary, but still he did not wake; so she ran softly to the bedside, and looked at him till her heart grew faint. He lay so still, and was very pale; and when she climbed up and laid her little face against his, she shuddered and wept bitterly, it was so very cold. After a while the step-mother returned. Soon some men came and took the father away, and though they looked very rough, one of them stopped and gave her a tortilla, saying: “Poor little young one, she has lost her best friend.”

As soon as the little girl could do any thing, the step-mother gave her plenty of work. Thus the years went by till the eve of the fÊte of Corpus Christi, when baby Gracia was brought to the cottage.

It seemed like the dawn of a new life to the lonely Catrina to look into that sweet baby face, and when the little one learned to love her and cry for her, though she found her task much heavier, her heart grew so light that her little hands worked wonders.

The woman took off the pretty coral necklace and sleeve clasps, and all the child’s fine clothes, and placed them in the strong oaken chest at the head of her bed. Little Gracia was dressed in clothes coarse as Catrina’s, but still she grew more lovely every day, and looked like a little princess in her rags.

Even the seared heart of the woman softened to the winning ways of the pretty child, though sometimes she would drive her away, exclaiming: “Go, go from me—I hate the race.” At other times she would take her in her arms, saying: “The baby is not to blame,” and with tears dimming her eyes, cover the little face with fond caresses.

Thus passed five long years at the cottage. Catrina had grown stronger, and more shapely. Her face was full of love and tenderness, though exposure had made her skin very rough and brown. Gracia had changed from babyhood to a sportive child, graceful as a young fawn.

One rainy night the woman came home very late, leaning heavily upon the arm of an old Indian, who with great difficulty supported her trembling steps. She was very ill, and she felt the cold shadow of death falling upon her.

Gracia was asleep, but Catrina sat by the fire waiting, and keeping the supper hot. She was frightened when she saw the pale face of the step-mother, and trembled with fear as she helped the Indian to lay her upon the bed.

For a few moments the sick woman was silent from exhaustion, but after a time she called Catrina to her.

“Listen to me, Catrina, for my time is growing short. I have been cruel to you at times, but you have been always good and true. Forgive me now, my poor Catrina as you pray the good Lord to forgive you.”

Here the woman grew so faint that she was obliged to stop speaking, and Catrina wept as though her heart would break.

Poor girl! she had been hardly used, but she knew no other fate; and though she did not love the step-mother as she did the little Gracia, it seemed very desolate to sit there by the dying woman who had given her a home, poor though it was. She pressed the cold hand to her lips, and buried her head in the bed-clothes.

“Oh! that child!” gasped the wretched woman. “Catrina, I have no time to lose. I see every thing so differently.

“I have been crazy, but all is clear now. Catrina, when you think of me remember me only as a poor suffering woman, and forgive me, as you hope for God’s mercy.

“But the child! in that trunk you will find her clothes and papers which will prove her birth. Her father is a good and true man, as I have learned this day. My life’s great wrong came from another’s hand.

“Promise me, Catrina, that you will never rest till you have restored her to her home, and the parents who love her.”

The step-mother’s words grew fainter, but her eyes, full of the brightness of expiring fires, were fixed upon Catrina, who reverently made the sign of the cross, and bowed her head in solemn acquiescence.

“Catrina,” she continued, “go up to the caÑon, keeping to the right, then over the mountain path, till you come to the great wood.” A spasm of pain convulsed her, and she ceased speaking. In a few moments it passed away, and a calm happy smile settled upon her face.

“I repent of all my sins; I forgive even the murderer of him who was dearer than my life. Now, may God have mercy upon my soul.”

The husky voice was hushed, the clasped hands relaxed, and the suffering woman was dead!

“She has gone to the land of the Great Spirit, and He has blessed her,” said the Indian, filled with amazement to see the troubled face grow so calm in death.They buried her in the shadow of the deep caÑon, and the children were left alone. The kind Indian came every day to the cottage to look after them, bringing always a bag of tortillas and fruits.

One morning, about a week after the death of the step-mother, he found Catrina and Gracia just leaving the cottage. As he gave Catrina the tortillas she shook his hand long and kindly, and the tears glistened in her eyes, but she could not speak to tell him she was going away, never to rest, until she had led Gracia back to her home.

For many days the Indian returned with his bag of tortillas, and went sadly away, for the cottage was alone in the dusky shadows.

The children took the path to the right out of the caÑon, then on up the steep mountain way. Catrina carried Gracia’s baby-clothes in her arms, and a large bag of tortillas, for she had eaten sparingly for a week, that she might have food for a long journey.

After awhile Gracia became weary, and then Catrina took her in her arms, though they seemed full, but the willing heart found a ready way to help her darling.

At last they reached the top of the mountain, so very worn and weary, that after they had eaten their dinners, Gracia fell heavily upon Catrina’s lap, but she could no longer support the weight of the child; so, folding her in her arms, they lay down upon the soft turf together and slept as soundly as though it had been a bed of down.

The shadows were growing very long when the young girls awoke, and all the west was glowing with fleecy amber clouds. The sunset in the clear pure atmosphere of the mountains seemed so much more rich and beautiful than in the dim caÑon, that little Gracia’s eyes shone with delight.

“Oh! Catrina,” she exclaimed, “surely that is the glorious heaven we see before us. Do you not remember what the good padre told us, when he came to the cottage? Let us hurry, Catrina, ’tis not so very far. Perhaps we can get there before dark.”

Catrina caught the hand of the excited child, and making the sign of the cross, knelt down with her face toward the sunset, and prayed for the soul of the unhappy step-mother, for the little Gracia, whom she loved dearly, and last of all for herself.

The radiance of the sunset fell upon the poor dumb girl, and shed its shining beauty upon her face. When Catrina arose, Gracia looked at her with eyes full of eager wonder.

“How God loves you, Catrina,” she whispered. “He threw his glory all around you when you prayed.” Catrina smiled and kissed the child, and giving her a tortilla, they began to descend the mountain, but the twilight came on so fast that very soon they could hardly see their way.

Gracia clasped Catrina’s hand very closely, saying: “I should be afraid in the dark, only God loves you so much, and heaven is so near.”

Thus they went on as long as they could see, and then sat down in the darkness, and by and by slept again.

Catrina woke early in the morning, and seeing a lime-tree not far distant, covered with fruit, left Gracia sleeping, and ran to gather some. “It will be so nice with our dry tortillas,” she thought; “and dear Gracia will be pleased with the juicy fruit.”

She made great haste, fearing lest the child might wake, and be frightened at her absence, and in a short time she returned with her apron filled with the delicious fruit. Her face lighted with the smile of grateful love, as she saw the little girl still sleeping sweetly. A moment more and the happy smile was turned to an expression of intense horror.

Only a few feet from the child crouched the huge form of an immense cougar, his fierce eyes gloating with hungry fire upon his helpless prey.

Catrina remained transfixed for a moment, watching the wild beast, until he crouched to spring upon her darling; she then threw her arms over her head, rushed forward, and by what means, God knows, her intense terror burst the prison-bonds of sound, and the dumb girl gave one wild, shrill cry, that made the mountains echo.

Just at that moment came a sharp flash of light, and the cougar lay weltering in his blood.

The startled Gracia woke to find Catrina lying as one dead upon the ground, and a handsome young boy coming forward to help them. The little girl was much frightened, and, weeping bitterly, she threw her arms around Catrina and called piteously,—

“Oh, Catrina! Catrina! open your eyes; do not leave me, Catrina; God loves you, He has called you!”

Then Catrina opened her eyes, and said, with imperfect utterance, “Don’t cry, my darling. The cougar is dead. Don’t cry; he will not hurt you.” And she kissed Gracia, and cried as hard as the child.“You! Catrina, you speak!” exclaimed little Gracia, as soon as she could speak, for Catrina’s caresses.

“You speak, who never spoke in your life. The good God heard your prayer last night. He shed His glory upon you, and now you speak.” They embraced each other, and wept for joy.

Then they noticed the handsome boy standing near them, resting upon his gun, and Catrina pressed his hand to her lips, and thanked him again and again.

They all went to look at the cougar together, and Catrina told the wondering Gracia how very near to heaven she had been, and young Leon De Lande told them both how he had started by moonlight to hunt in the mountains, and how he thanked God he had been able to save the little seÑorita.

They sat down to eat their tortillas and fruit, and then started for the valley. Poor Catrina! How delightful to be able to talk, though she needed practice to be able to speak plainly.

She was like a little child just learning, but she managed to let Leon know all about Gracia, and he, with delighted surprise, told her that he knew her father, who was the richest seÑor in all the country, and that in a few hours they could reach the vineyard.

Never were there happier young people than went down the mountain together. As they entered the wood, whom should they meet but poor old nurse, Macata, hunting for her lost darling.

“I have found the little seÑorita for you, good Macata,” said Leon. Macata gave one glance at Gracia, then caught her in her arms, exclaiming, “Ninita mia! Ninita mia! Waconda! the Master of Life has heard my cry! I knew you were not lost for ever.”

The old Indian started off at full speed, carrying Gracia in her arms, sobbing all the time, and blessing the Great Spirit that she had lived to restore the lost child to the dear seÑora.

Leon and Catrina could barely keep pace with her, but at last they entered the very room, where, five years before, the beautiful child lay sleeping in her little willow cradle.

“I have brought her back, seÑora,” cried old Macata, out of breath. “It is our little white bud, seÑora, dear! Oh! Alma mia! Mijita mia, Waconda has not forgotten us!” The old woman placed the child in the mother’s arms, and fell with her face upon the floor, weeping for joy.

No words can tell the joy that filled the house. Only the heart of the father and mother could feel how greatly God had blessed them.

Now the years went pleasantly by. The good Catrina become a lovely maiden. Her form gained strength and beauty. Her hair grew soft and glossy; her skin clear and smooth, and her brown eyes were tender with the light of happiness. But, most wonderful of all, her voice was a marvel of sweetness. It was a great pleasure to hear her sing at evening, accompanied by the soft music of her light guitar. She was loved by all, but especially so by the young hidalgo, who won her for his bride.

Leon and Gracia danced together at the wedding, and it was plain enough to see how devoted the brave young seÑor was to the graceful seÑorita whose life he had saved.

Gracia had grown more and more beautiful every year, till in all the country she was called La Bonita.

She had many admirers, but the seÑor said, “Young Leon restored her to us, and to him only will we give our child.” Thus, upon her sixteenth birthday, the great wedding feast was made, and all San Diego around re-echoed the great joy. There were tables spread under the lime-trees for the poor, and all the country was there.

In the quaint adobe church the marriage ceremony was performed, and with a happy heart Leon received his bride, while the father and mother thanked God for His most blessed gifts, their son and daughter. Thus all their sorrows ended, and all their lives were circled by the light of happiness and love.