"Oh, yes," replied Mauricio. "They have it in the brush-house over there. Did you not see the bells when you came?"
"No; we did not notice them," said Mr. Page.
"They are always photographed by visitors," remarked Francisco. "They came from old Spain. They are the finest toned in California; there is much gold and silver in them."
"We shall have to look at them on our way home," said Aunt Mary. "I am greatly interested in such things."
"They are more than two hundred years old," said Mauricio. "The Volcans and Santa Isabels are very proud of them."
And now once more they were at the top of the ascent overlooking a valley much smaller than either of the others. Behind this rose an almost perpendicular hill covered with an undergrowth of various kinds of bushes.
Two snow-white tents were pitched at its base. In front of one of them a young girl lay reading in a hammock. At her feet a boy was making a bow and arrow. In the door of the tent an old lady, with a white, fleecy shawl thrown over her shoulders and a lace scarf over her snow-white hair, was knitting.
"They are the Almirantes," said Francisco in a whisper to Miss Nellie and Walter. "They come every year to the Iron Spring."
Respectfully saluting the old lady, who arose at their approach, the party was about to pass on when, coming forward, she said, "How do you do, Mauricio and Francisco? And how is Cecilio?"
"All are well, Señora," was the reply.