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“Donna Maria Amador, and Dona Felipa Peralta–her daughter by her first husband,” said Aunt Viney quietly. “When you see the horses you think it’s a circus; when you look inside the carriage you KNOW it’s a funeral.”

Aunt Viney did not condescend to explain how she had acquired her genealogical knowledge of her neighbor’s family, but succeeded in breaking the restraint between the young people. Dick proposed a ride in the afternoon, which was cheerfully accepted by Cecily. Their intercourse apparently recovered its old frankness and freedom, marred only for a moment when they set out on the plain. Dick, really to forget his preoccupation of the morning, turned his horse’s head AWAY from the trail, to ride in another direction; but Cecily oddly, and with an exhibition of caprice quite new to her, insisted upon taking the old trail. Nevertheless they met nothing, and soon became absorbed in the exercise. Dick felt something of his old tenderness return to this wholesome, pretty girl at his side; perhaps he betrayed it in his voice, or in an unconscious lingering by her bridle-rein, but she accepted it with a naive reserve which he naturally attributed to the effect of his own previous preoccupation. He bore it so gently, however, that it awakened her interest, and, possibly, her pique. Her reserve relaxed, and by the time they returned to the hacienda they had regained something of their former intimacy. The dry, incisive breath of the plains swept away the last lingering remnants of yesterday’s illusions. Under this frankly open sky, in this clear perspective of the remote Sierras, which admitted no fanciful deception of form or distance–there remained nothing but a strange incident–to be later explained or forgotten. Only he could not bring himself to talk to HER about it.

After dinner, and a decent lingering for coffee on the veranda, Dick rose, and leaning half caressingly, half mischievously, over his aunt’s rocking-chair, but with his eyes on Cecily, said:–

“I’ve been deeply considering, dear Aunty, what you said last evening of the necessity of our offering a good example to our neighbors. Now, although Cecily and I are cousins, yet, as I am HEAD of the house, lord of the manor, and padron, according to the Spanish ideas I am her recognised guardian and protector, and it seems to me it is my positive DUTY to accompany her if she wishes to walk out this evening.”

A momentary embarrassment–which, however, changed quickly into an answering smile to her cousin–came over Cecily’s face. She turned to her aunt.

“Well, don’t go too far,” said that lady quietly.

When they closed the grille behind them and stepped into the lane, Cecily shot a quick glance at her cousin.

“Perhaps you’d rather walk in the garden?”

“I? Oh, no,” he answered honestly. “But”–he hesitated–“would you?”

“Yes,” she said faintly.

He impulsively offered his arm; her slim hand slipped lightly through it and rested on his sleeve. They crossed the lane together, and entered the garden. A load appeared to be lifted from his heart; the moment seemed propitious,–here was a chance to recover his lost ground, to regain his self-respect and perhaps his cousin’s affection. By a common instinct, however, they turned to the right, and AWAY from the stone bench, and walked slowly down the broad allee.

They talked naturally and confidingly of the days when they had met before, of old friends they had known and changes that had crept into their young lives; they spoke affectionately of the grim, lonely, but self-contained old woman they had just left, who had brought them thus again together. Cecily talked of Dick’s studies, of the scientific work on which he was engaged, that was to bring him, she was sure, fame and fortune! They talked of the thoughtful charm of the old house, of its quaint old-world flavor. They spoke of the beauty of the night, the flowers and the stars, in whispers, as one is apt to do–as fearing to disturb a super-sensitiveness in nature.