The Aliso Tree.
"Raquelita!" she said, in quick contrition. "I have asked too much of you, to ride with me blindfold into the wilderness. Say so, and ride back while it is yet light to reach the road. It was wrong to ask you to share burdens of others. I am at your feet, darling. Do not blame me too much, for—"
Raquel lifted her head and looked at her, and smiled through tears.
"Anita mia, you cannot send me back, for I will not go. Do not fancy me unhappy because—oh—because of anything. I feel, here in the open, more at home than any moment since I came to California. We were of the hill folk, my mother's people, and out under the stars in the night all their old buried instincts awake in me—the pagan gladness of the wilderness."
"You do not look glad," said Ana, doubtfully.
"Child, child! who of us is glad with unmixed gladness, after the door has been closed on our youth and the dreams of youth?"
She slid from her perch and slipped her hand through her friend's arm.
"But to-night, beloved, we will close other doors—the doors of the world of people. This tree shall be the last landmark; beyond this we ride over enchanted ground, and fancy all wild sweet things of our destination. You go to—to your lover, perhaps; and I—I ride to dream dreams in the open."
"But, Raquelita—"