I reached home late on Christmas eve.  My two elder brothers, who also followed cattle work, had arrived the day before, and the Quirk family were once more united, for the first time in two years.  Within an hour after my arrival, I learned from my brothers that there was to be a dance that night at a settlement about fifteen miles up the river.  They were going, and it required no urging on their part to insure the presence of Quirk’s three boys.  Supper over, a fresh horse was furnished me, and we set out for the dance, covering the distance in less than two hours.  I knew nearly every one in the settlement, and got a cordial welcome.  I played the fiddle, danced with my former sweethearts, and, ere the sun rose in the morning, rode home in time for breakfast.  During that night’s revelry, I contrasted my former girl friends on the San Antonio with another maiden, a slip of the old Scotch stock, transplanted and nurtured in the sunshine and soil of the San Miguel.  The comparison stood all tests applied, and in my secret heart I knew who held the whip hand over the passions within me.

As I expected to return to Las Palomas for the New Year, my time was limited to a four days’ visit at home.  But a great deal can be said in four days; and at the end I was ready to saddle my black, bid my adieus, and ride for the southwest.  During my visit I was careful not to betray that I had even a passing thought of a sweetheart, and what parents would suspect that a rollicking, carefree young fellow of twenty could have any serious intentions toward a girl?  With brothers too indifferent, and sisters too young, the secret was my own, though Wolf, my mount, as he put mile after mile behind us, seemed conscious that his mission to reach the San Miguel without loss of time was of more than ordinary moment.  And a better horse never carried knight in the days of chivalry.

On reaching the McLeod ranch during the afternoon of the second day, I found Esther expectant; but the welcome of her mother was of a frigid order.  Having a Scotch mother myself, I knew something of arbitrary natures, and met Mrs. McLeod’s coolness with a fund of talk and stories; yet I could see all too plainly that she was determinedly on the defensive.  I had my favorite fiddle with me which I was taking back to Las Palomas, and during the evening I played all the old Scotch ballads I knew and love songs of the highlands, hoping to soften her from the decided stand she had taken against me and my intentions.  But her heritage of obstinacy was large, and her opposition strong, as several well-directed thrusts which reached me in vulnerable places made me aware, but I smiled as if they were flattering compliments.  Several times I mentally framed replies only to smother them, for I was the stranger within her gates, and if she saw fit to offend a guest she was still within her rights.