“I shall try to remember that,” Pablo replied, bitterly.  “Forgive me, Don Miguel, for forgetting it.  Perhaps I have not played well my part as the representative of my master during his absence.”

“Do not distress yourself further in the matter, Pablo.  What food have we at the ranch?  Is there sufficient with which to enable Carolina to serve breakfast?”

“To serve it where, Don Miguel?”

“Where but in my home?”

“Blood of the devil!” Pablo slapped his thigh and grinned in the knowledge that the last of the Farrels, having come home, had decided to waste no time in assuming his natural position as the master of the Rancho Palomar.  “We have oranges,” he began, enumerating each course of the forthcoming meal on his tobacco-stained fingers.  “Then there is flour in my possession for biscuits, and, two weeks ago, I robbed a bee-tree; so we have honey.  Our coffee is not of the best, but it is coffee.  And we have eggs.”

“Any butter, sugar, and cream?”

“Alas, no, Don Miguel!”

“Saddle a horse at once, go down to the mission, and borrow some from Father Dominic.  If he has none, ride over to the Gonzales rancho and get it.  Bacon, also, if they have it.  Tell Carolina I will have breakfast for five at half after eight.”

“But this Japanese cook of Senor Parker’s, Don Miguel?”

“I am not in a mood to be troubled by trifles tonight, Pablo.”

“I understand, Don Miguel.  The matter may safely be entrusted to me.”  He picked up the tray.  “Sweet rest to you, sir, and may our Saviour grant a quick healing to your bruised heart.  Good-night.”

“Good-night, Pablo.”  Farrel rose and laid his hand on the old retainer’s shoulder.  “I never bothered to tell you this before, Pablo, but I want you to know that I do appreciate you and Carolina tremendously.  You’ve stuck to me and mine, and you’ll always have a home with me.”

“Child,” Pablo queried, huskily, “must we leave the rancho?”

“I’m afraid we must, Pablo.  I shall know more about our plans after I have talked with Senor Parker.”

X

That night, Miguel Farrel did not sleep in the great bed of his ancestors.  Instead, he lay beneath his grandmother’s silk crazy-quilt and suffered.  The shock incident to the discovery of the desperate straits to which he had been reduced had, seemingly, deprived him of the power to think coherently.  Along toward daylight, however, what with sheer nervous exhaustion, he fell into a troubled doze from which he was awakened at seven o’clock by the entrance of Pablo, with a pitcher of hot water for his shaving.

“Carolina will serve breakfast, Don Miguel,” he announced.  “The Japanese cook tried to throw her out of the kitchen; so I have locked him up in the room where of old I was wont to place vaqueros who desired to settle their quarrels without interference.”