"I wish, little girl, that as a stripling I had come here and had built my life into this Western world. That favor of kings I had never known—I care nothing for their disfavor—but of my own self, coupled with the resources with which nature has endowed California, I had evolved the best that fortune would have sent me, were it hacienda house and administratorship, or a humble hut with modest plot of ground, such as has the least of my peons."
A tap at the door.
"Enter," from Mendoza.
A peon stepped within. Thrice he bowed low to the master, then to the doña.
"Señor Mendoza, a stranger awaits you in the outer office."
"Does he give his name?"
"Here it is, señor."
The peon porter handed Mendoza a piece of paper on which was written, in bold, rough characters, "Charles O'Donnell."
"O'Donnell—O'Donnell—Let him enter."
The peon again bowed low to the master and his daughter. Backing through the door, he bowed once more. Almost immediately the stranger, O'Donnell, stood in the doorway. Señor Mendoza was on his feet formally awaiting his visitor.