“The old ruin doesn’t look very impressive from the front, Kay,” her father explained, as he helped her out of the car, “but that wall hides an old-fashioned garden that will delight you.  A porch runs all round the inside of the house, and every door opens on the patio.  That long adobe barracks over yonder used to house the help.  In the old days, a small army of peons was maintained here.  The small adobe house back there in the trees houses the majordomo—­that old rascal, Pablo.”

“He is still here, dad?”

“Yes—­and as belligerent as old billy-owl.  He pretends to look after the stock.  I ordered him off the ranch last week; but do you think he’d go?  Not much.  He went inside his shack, sorted out a rifle, came outside, sat down, and fondled the weapon all day long.  Ever since then he has carried it, mounted or afoot.  So I haven’t bothered him.  He’s a bad old Indian, and when I secure final title to the ranch, I’ll have the sheriff of the county come out and remove him.”

“But how does he live, dear?”

“How does any Indian live?  He killed a steer last week, jerked half of it, and sold the other half for some beans and flour.  It wasn’t his steer and it wasn’t mine.  It belonged to the Farrel estate, and, since there is nobody to lodge a complaint against him, I suppose he’ll kill another steer when his rations run low.  This way, daughter.  Right through the hole in the wall.”

They passed through a big inset gate in the adobe wall, into the patio.  At once the scent of lemon and orange blossoms, mingled with the more delicate aroma of flowers, assailed them.  Kay stood, entranced, gazing upon the hodgepodge of color; she had the feeling of having stepped out of one world into another.

Her father stood watching her.

“Wonderful old place, isn’t it, Kay?” he suggested.  “The garden has been neglected, but I’m going to clean it out.”

“Do not touch it,” she commanded, almost sharply.  “I want it the way it is.”

“You little tyrant!” he replied good-naturedly.  “You run me ragged and make me like it.”

From a rocker on the porch at the eastern end of the patio Kay’s mother rose and called to them, and the girl darted away to greet her.  Mrs. Parker folded the girl to a somewhat ample bosom and kissed her lovingly on her ripe red lips; to her husband she presented a cheek that showed to advantage the artistry of a member of that tribe of genii who strive so valiantly to hold in check the ravages of age.  At fifty, Kay’s mother was still a handsome woman; her carriage, her dress, and a certain repressed vivacity indicated that she had mastered the art of growing old gracefully.

“Well, kitten,” she said, a trifle louder and shriller than one seemed to expect of her, “are you going to remain with us a little while, or will next week see you scampering away again?”

“I’ll stay all summer, fuss-budget.  I’m going to paint the San Gregorio while it’s on exhibition, and then this old house and the garden.  Oh, mother dear, I’m in love with it!  It’s wonderful!”