“Barbara,” he said, “the spring of youth—it never could be found a second time. We drank from it together—we enjoyed it to the full. What a mistake—mourning instead of exulting in the memory of it—a memory that no one can take from me—of youth with you, dearest, of youth with you!”
THE SILVER BELL OF LOS MORALES
STRANGE things are related of the old Indian pueblo of Los Morales on the Rio Grande. And a tale that is one of the strangest concerns these—a dark vaquero—a young painter of Indians, fair as the vaquero was dark—a blue-eyed girl with a spotted mustang—a little father of the chapel of San Felipe—a dove that was a peacock—a peacock that was a living example—a deer fed on flowers—and an empty belfry that sounded forth the ringing of a bell.
“Ah-ah,” said Father José, pausing in the midst of his salad-making to listen, “—more trouble!”
The young man at the easel looked up. “Gracious!” he exclaimed, and faced about to peer through the low, wide-ledged window of the kitchen. “It sounds serious.”
“But it is only Anastacio and Paloma,” said the father wearily. He trotted across the worn floor to fetch a deep white-and-gold dish from his cupboard. Returning, he held the dish up. “It was my mother’s,” he explained proudly, “—like all those upon the shelf. She had a full set of porcelain. And my salads are always most palatable in this dish.”
“Paloma,” repeated the painter, with a fleet glance at the dish. “That means a dove.”
“Yes—and I christened her. But, ah! Señor John, when a Spanish girl is yet a baby, how is it possible to know what name she should be given? A dove!”
At this juncture the quarrel without waxed more loud and furious. A girl shrilled something taunting—over and over, in a high key—then, the rumble of a man’s deep growling answered—next, both voices sounded together—a very discord of wrath.