Up to the moment of the stranger’s appearance, nothing had happened to break the monotony of her long return journey towards Cloudy Mountain Camp.  Far back in the distance now lay the Mission where the passengers of the stage had been hospitably entertained the night before; still further back the red-tiled roofs and whitewashed walls of the little pueblo of San Jose,—­a veritable bower of roses; and remotest of all, the crosses of San Carlos and the great pines, oaks and cypresses, which bordered her dream-memory of the white-beach crescent formed by the waves of Monterey Bay.

The dawn of each day that swept her further from her week in wonderland had ushered in the matchless spring weather of California,—­the brilliant sunshine, the fleecy clouds, the gentle wind with just a tang in it from the distant mountains; and as the stage rolled slowly northward through beautiful valleys, bright with yellow poppies and silver-white lupines, every turn of the road varied her view of the hills lying under an enchantment unlike that of any other land.  Yet strange and full of interest as every mile of the river country should have been to a girl accustomed to the great forest of the Sierras, she had gazed upon it for the most part with unseeing eyes, while her thoughts turned, magnet-like, backward to the delights and the bewilderment of the old Mexican town.  So now, as the pursuing horseman swept rapidly nearer, each swinging stride of the powerful horse, each rhythmic movement of the graceful rider brought nearer and more vivid the vision of a handsome picador holding off with his lance a thoroughly maddened bull until the crowd roared forth its appreciation.

“See, Senorita,” said the horseman, at last galloping close to the coach and lifting his sombrero, “A beautiful bunch of syringa,” and then, with his face bent towards her and his voice full of appeal, he added in lower tone:  “for you!”

For a brief second, the Girl was too much taken back to find the adequate words with which to accept the stranger’s offering.  Notwithstanding that in his glance she could read, as plainly as though he had spoken:  “I know I am taking a liberty, but please don’t be angry with me,” there was something in his sweeping bow and grace of manner that, coupled with her vague sense of his social advantage, disconcerted her.  A second more, however, and the embarrassment had passed, for on lifting her eyes to his again she saw that her memory had not played her false; beyond all chance of a mistake, he was the man who, ten days earlier, had peered into the stage, as she was nearing Monterey, and later, at the bull-fight, had found time to shoot admiring glances at her between his daring feats of horsemanship.  Therefore, genuine admiration was in her eyes and extreme cordiality in her voice when, after a word or two of thanks, she added, with great frankness: 

“But it strikes me sort o’ forcible that I’ve seen you before.”  Then, with growing enthusiasm:  “My, but that bull-fight was jest grand!  You were fine!  I’m right glad to know you, sir.”