the Californias.  A sovereignty would suit her,—­were it not for her eyes.  They are not quite so calm and just and inexorable as the rest of her face.  She would not even make a good household tyrant, like Dona Jacoba Duncan.  Unquestionably she is religious, and swaddled in all the traditions of her race; but her eyes,—­they are at odds with all the rest of her.  They are not lovely eyes; they lack softness and languor and tractability; their expression changes too often, and they mirror too much intelligence for loveliness, but they never will be old eyes, and they never will cease to look.  And they are the eyes best worth looking into that I have ever seen.  No, a sovereignty would not suit her at all; a salon might.  But, like a few of us, she is some years ahead of her sphere.  Glory be to the Californias—­of the future, when we are dirt, and our children have found the gold!”

The baby was nearly baptized by the time he had finished his soliloquy.  She had kicked alarmingly when the salt was laid on her tongue, and squalled under the deluge of water which gave her her name and also wet Chonita’s sleeve.  The godmother longed for the ceremony to be over; but it was more protracted than usual, owing to the importance of the restless object on the pillow in her weary arms.  When the last word was said, she handed pillow and baby to the nurse with a fervent sigh of relief which made her appear girlish and natural.

After Estenega had lifted her to her horse he dried her sleeve with his handkerchief.  He lingered over the task; the cavalcade and populace went on without them, and when they started they were in the rearward of the blithesome crowd.

“Do you know what I thought as I stood by you in the church?” he asked.

“No,” she said, indifferently.  “I hope you prayed for the fortune of the little one.”

“I did not; nor did you.  You were too afraid you would drop it.  I was thinking how unmotherly, I had almost said unwomanly, you looked.  You were made for the great world,—­the restless world, where people fly faster from monotony than from a tidal wave.”

She looked at him with cold dignity, but flushed a little.  “I am not unwomanly, senor, although I confess I do not understand babies and do detest to sew.  But if I ever marry I shall be a good wife and mother.  No Spanish woman was ever otherwise, for every Spanish woman has had a good mother for example.”

“You have said exactly what you should have said, voicing the inborn principles and sentiments of the Spanish woman.  I should be interested to know what your individual sentiments are.  But you misunderstand me.  I said that you were too good for the average lot of woman.  You are a woman, not a doll; an intelligence, not a bundle of shallow emotions and transient desires.  You should have a larger destiny.”

She gave him a swift sidelong flash from eyes that suddenly looked childish and eager.