It was Cornelia who suggested, when the staggering news of Austin’s engagement came to Boston, that her mother should go to California, stay at some “pretty, quiet farm-house near by,” meet this Miss Manzanita Boone, whoever she was, and quietly effect, as mothers and sisters have hoped to effect since time began, a change of heart in Austin.

And so she had arrived here, to find that there was no such thing in the entire valley as the colonial farmhouse of her dreams, to find that, far from estranging Austin from the Boone family, she must actually be their guest while she stayed at Yerba Buena, to find that her coming was interpreted by this infatuated pair to be a sign of her entire sympathy with their plans.  And added to all this, Austin was different, noisier, bigger, younger than she remembered him:  Manzanita was worse than her worst fears, and the rancho, bounded only by the far-distant mountain ridges, with its canyons, its river, its wooded valleys and trackless ranges, struck actual terror to her homesick soul.

“Well, what do you think of her?  Isn’t she a darling?” demanded Austin, when he and his mother were alone on the porch, just before dinner.

“She’s very pretty, dear.  She’s not a college girl, of course?”

“College?  Lord, no!  Why, she wouldn’t even go away to boarding-school.”  Austin was evidently proud of her independent spirit.  “She and her brothers went to this little school over here at Eucalyptus, and I guess Manz’ita ran things pretty much her own way.  You’ll like the kids.  They have no mother, you know, and old Boone just adores Manzanita.  He’s a nice old boy, too.”

“Austin, dear!” Mrs. Phelps’s protest died into a sigh.

“Well, but he is, a fine old fellow,” amended Austin.

“And you think she’s the sort of woman to make you happy, dear.  Is she musical?  Is she fond of books?”

Austin, for the first time, looked troubled.

“Don’t you like her, mother?” he asked, astounded.

“Why, I’ve just met her, dear.  I want you to tell me about her.”

“Every one here is crazy about her,” Austin said half sulkily.  “She’s been engaged four times, and she’s only twenty-two!”

“And she told you that, dear?  Herself?”

The boy flushed quickly.

“Why shouldn’t she?” he said uncomfortably.  “Every one knows it.”

His mother fanned for a moment in silence.

“Can you imagine Cornelia—­or Sally—­engaged four times, and talking about it?” she asked gently.

“Things are different here,” Austin presently submitted, to which Mrs. Phelps emphatically assented, “Entirely different!”

There was a pause.  From the kitchen region came much slamming of light wire door, and the sound of hissing and steaming, high-keyed remarks from the Chinese and the Portuguese girls, and now and then the ripple of Manzanita’s laughter.  A farm-hand crossed the yard, with pails of milk, and presently a dozen or more men came down the steep trail that led to the mine.