of, but being wise in her generation she dismissed Anita on a trivial errand and motioned her guest to a seat.  What was said is a matter of interest only to those immediately concerned.  Love is his own interpreter and labors willingly, yet in this instance his limitations must be excused by the result.  The Senora and Sundown came to a perfect understanding.  The cabellero was welcome to make the state of his heart known to Anita.  As for her father, she—­the Senora—­would attend to him.  And was Sundown fond of the tortillas?  He was, be Gosh!  It was well.  They would have tortillas that evening.  Chico Miguel was especially fond of the tortillas.  They made him of the pleasant disposition and induced him to tune the big guitar.

The Senora would take her siesta.  Possibly her guest would smoke and entertain Anita with news from the Concho and of the Patron Loring and of his own rancho.  Anita was not of what you say the kind to do the much talking, but she had a heart.  Of that the Senora had reason to be assured.  Had not Anita gone, each day, to the gate and stood gazing down the road?  Surely there was nothing to see save the mesas.  Had she not begged to be allowed to visit the Loring hacienda not of so very long time past?  And Anita had not been to the Loring hacienda for a year or more.  Such things were significant.  And the Senora gestured toward her own bosom, implying that she of a surety knew from which quarter the south wind blew.

All of which delighted the already joyous Sundown.  He saw before him a flower-bordered pathway to his happiness, and incidentally, as he gazed down the pathway toward the gate of Chico Miguel’s homestead, he saw Anita standing pensively beneath the shade of an acacia, pulling a flower to pieces and casting quick glances at the house.  “Good-night, Senora,—­I mean—­er—­here’s hopin’ you have a good sleep.  It sure is refreshin’ this hot weather.”  The Senora nodded and disappeared in the bedroom.  Sundown strode jingling down the pathway, a brave figure in his glittering chaps and tinkling spurs.  Anita’s eyes were hidden beneath her long black lashes.  Perhaps she had anticipated something of that which followed—­perhaps she anticipated even more.  In any event, Sundown was not a disappointment.  He asked her to sit beside him beneath the acacia.  Then he took her hand and squeezed it.  “Let’s jest sit here and look out at them there mesas dancin’ in the sun; and say, ‘Nita, let’s jest say nothin’ for a spell.  I’m so right down happy that suthin’ hurts me throat.”

When Chico Miguel returned in the dusk of evening, humming a song of the herd, he was not a little surprised to find that Anita was absent.  He questioned the Senora, who smiled as she bustled about the table.  “Tortillas,” she said, and was gratified at the change in Chico Miguel’s expression.  Then she explained the presence of the broad new Stetson that lay on a chair, adding a gesture toward the gateway.  “It is the tall one and our daughter—­he of the grand manner and the sad countenance.  It is possible that a new home will be thought of for Anita.”  There had been conversations that afternoon with the tall caballero and understandings.  Chico Miguel was to wash himself and put on his black suit.  It was an event—­and there were tortillas.