you stand alone. I now feel myself the model of all the virtues."
"That's right; that's right," returned the old man, much pleased. "And how are the crops?"
"Well, the bees are laying up a lot of indifferent muddy honey. The cherry crop seems to please the birds, of which there are six to each cherry. I found a couple of young apples starting yesterday. The spring still seems to be damp. There were two coyotes on the hill last night. The mortgage is a little better than holding its own. That's about one month's history. You can repeat for next month, except that those two apples will probably get worms."
The Colonel laughed, and patted Brainerd's shoulder again.
"If I did not know you," he said, "I would say that you were getting bitter. But I know you. How does the new pony go, Puss?" he asked the girl.
She turned her direct unembarrassed gaze at him.
"He is wonderful; the best I have ridden; I love him!"
"That is something I want to speak to you about," said Brainerd. "It is good of you to keep sending Daphne ponies to ride, and I appreciate it; but I really cannot permit you to continue it. You must let me buy this pony, if it is within my means."
"The animals must be exercised. It is a favour to me to get one of them cared for and ridden."
"Nonsense, Colonel. I know better than that. And I know the value of these horses of yours. That palomino[1] is fine old stock. If you will not let me pay for him, I shall certainly have to send him back. You have been more than generous in the past, and I have been weak enough to allow you to do it, but it cannot go on."
Daphne glanced up and caught the look of distress in the Colonel's face.
"Daddy, you are interfering with what does not concern you," she said calmly. "This is a matter entirely between my Fairy Godfather and me."
"Is it, really? Well upon my word! " cried Brainerd, bristling up.
But the Colonel interposed, delighted at this unexpected aid.
"Yes, yes, to be sure. How dare you interfere, Brainerd, between me and my goddaughter. That is our affair. We will settle it ourselves."
He seized Daphne's hand and the two disappeared together in the direction of the Grove, leaving Brainerd looking after them, a slight quirk relieving the bitterness of his mouth.
IV
The Grove was a-buzz with life. The huge barbecued joints had been dug up from the pit and now lay before Benito and his assistants, who sliced them deftly with long, keen knives and laid the slices on plates. These were quickly snatched away by waiting laughing girls who took them in precarious piles to the tables. There waited the guests, cracking walnuts, eating raisins and oranges, making vast inroads on the supposedly ornamental desserts while awaiting the substantials. The volunteer waitresses darted here and there. They were girls of the country, both American and Spanish born. The former were magnificent figures cast on heroic lines; tall, full bosomed, large limbed, tawny and gold, true California products; the latter smaller, with high insteps, small bones, powdered faces, beautiful eyes. All alike were very starched and very busy. Men followed them with galvanized pails containing the celebrated sauce—composed mainly of onions, tomatoes, and chilis cunningly blended; or pans with potatoes or tomales or stuffed onions. One stout old California woman dressed in oldstyle rebozo and mantilla, her round face shining with heat and pleasure, carried a long platter heaped high with tortillas which she urged on everyone.
"Da pancak' of old time," she cried. "Eet is veray goot. Try him."
Another group were close gathered at the short table that had been erected in front of the wine kegs. Here José and a number of helpers worked busily filling tin cups that were continually thrust at their attention. At this table there seemed little need for the help of the tripping laughing young waitresses. Everyone appeared willing and able to help himself. The wine was of the country, and light in content, yet already its effects could be noticed in the loosening of tongue, the relaxing of the bucolic stiffness that had in certain quarters inaugurated the party. Young chaps besought the flitting girls to stop for but a moment's chat, or flung out an amusing impertinence that caught some damsel on the fly. There was a great deal of laughter. A Spanish orchestra back in the trees twanged away on its guitars, and even though unheeded, furnished a background to the noise.
An abatement of this noise suddenly took place. Rapid admonitions found their way to the groups and individuals who still talked or laughed on. Shortly silence reigned. The Colonel and Mrs. Peyton were leading their especial guests into the Grove.
There ensued a few moments of well-bred confusion while places were found. Then the Colonel straightened himself and faced the assembly.
"You are welcome, friends," he said. "It is pleasant to greet you here once more. This occasion is always one near my heart, and my wish is that it may continue for many years to come." He raised a wine glass to the light. "I will ask you to drink with me to the fiesta of her who makes this rancho what it is—many happy returns——" He turned and bowed low to Mrs. Peyton. The people all over the Grove struggled to their feet—no easy matter from the stationary benches. The air cried with the shouts in English and Spanish. And the spirits of the trees—which, though friendly spirits are shy—must have plucked up heart against the noise and drawn nearer to that composite glow of good feeling.
All reseated themselves, and attacked with appetite the good things offered. The food at the Colonel's tables was exactly that of the others—the juicy barbecued meat with the fiery sauce, the tomales and tortillas, the beans and soda biscuits, all brought around in pails and pans and served with dippers. But it was very good. The only difference was in the silver, the glass, the napkins and the wines. Of the latter the Colonel was proud. The white wines had been carefully chilled in the spring house: the red wines turned in the sun by the Colonel's own hand. Sing Toy and two younger replicas had charge of serving them.
At the Colonel's right sat Allie, for was she not the guest of honour? At his left billowed Mrs. Judge Crosby. Mrs. Doctor Wallace was across the way, and so the Colonel found himself surrounded with dignity, substantial importance, and what would have been certain stodginess had it not been for his own inexhaustible and genuine desire that everyone have a good time. He plied them with courtesy, with food, with drink, with rather elaborate old compliments, pretending to believe that remote yesterdays were but just around the corner. And every few moments he would remark with an air of discovery on the excellence of some dish, and would send for the cook thereof.
"These are real camp soda biscuits," he told Mrs. Crosby. "Just the kind you will get on rodeo. I wonder who made them? Who made these biscuits, Ynez?" he asked a Spanish girl who passed. "Find out, and ask the one who cooked them to stop here a moment. You won't mind, will you?" he flattered Mrs. Judge. "So you made these soda biscuits!" he said a moment later, as a lazy, awkward American cowboy stood before him twisting his broad hat. "Well, you are an artist, and I wanted Mrs. Peyton to see you and tell you so."
"Indeed, they are delicious. Better than I could do myself. And you know I am quite a cook," said Mrs. Peyton briskly.
"Yes, ma'am," said the cowboy. "You'd do a heap better always if you use a Dutch oven 'stead of a stove."
He retired hot with embarrassment, outwardly stolid, and inwardly "tickled to death."
In like manner a farmer's wife
