The evening passed without mention of the real errand of our guests.  The conversation was allowed to wander at will, during which several times it drifted into gentle repartee between host and padre, both artfully avoiding the rock of matchmaking.  But the next morning, as if anxious to begin the day’s work early, Father Norquin, on arising, inquired for his host, strutted out to the corrals, and, on meeting him, promptly inquired why, during the previous summer, Don Alejandro Travino’s mission to obtain the hand of Juana Leal had failed.

“That’s so,” assented Uncle Lance, very affably, “Don Alejandro was here as godfather to his nephew.  And this young man with you is Don Blas, the bear?  Well, why did we waste so much time last night talking about chapels and death when we might have made a match in less time?  You priests have everything in your favor as padrinos, but you are so slow that a rival might appear and win the girl while you were drumming up your courage.  I don’t write Spanish myself, but I have boys here on the ranch who do.  One of them, if I remember rightly, wrote the answer at the request of Juana’s mother.  If my memory hasn’t failed me entirely, the parents objected to being separated from their only daughter.  You know how that is among your people; and I never like to interfere in family matters.  But from what I hear Don Blas has a rival now.  Yes; young Travino failed to press his suit, and a girl will stand for nearly anything but neglect.  But that’s one thing they won’t stand for, not when there’s a handsome fellow at hand to play the bear.  Then the old lover is easily forgotten for the new.  Eh, Father?”

“Ah, Don Lance, I know your reputation as a matchmaker,” replied Father Norquin, in a rich French accent.  “Report says had you not had a hand in it the match would have been successful.  The supposition is that it only lacked your approval.  The daughter of a vaquero refusing a Travino?  Tut, tut, man!”

A hearty guffaw greeted these aspersions.  “And so you’ve heard I was a matchmaker, have you?  Of course, you believed it just like any other old granny.  Now, of course, when I’m asked by any of my people to act as padrino, I never refuse any more than you do.  I’ve made many a match and hope to be spared to make several more.  But come; they’re calling us to breakfast, and after that we’ll take a walk over to the ranch burying ground.  It’s less than a half mile—­in that point of encinal yonder.  I want to show you what I think would be a nice spot for our chapel.”

The conversation during breakfast was artfully directed by the host to avoid the dangerous shoals, though the padre constantly kept an eye on Juana as she passed back and forth.  As we arose from the table and were passing to the gallery, Uncle Lance nudged the priest, and, poking Don Blas in the ribs, said:  “Isn’t Juana a stunning fine cook?  Got up that breakfast herself.  There isn’t