Mrs. Sanderson had captivated the Doña Maria with the rest of us, and had no difficulty in persuading the unfortunate woman to receive us into her household. She dilated with her usual flow upon the mutual advantages of the arrangement, until I was charmed with her disinterested kindness. Not even now do I charge the woman with a premeditated plot. If one existed then, it existed for Sidney alone—the shadow of a foul possibility. Neither do I believe that Mrs. Sanderson cared to befriend either the Doña Maria Del Valle or myself.
Our residence at the ranch might prove another opportunity for enjoyment during the winter, an added zest to the California sojourn. Picturesque situations were the chief articles in the woman's creed; to entertain Sidney, her religion.
She was so supremely worldly, so accustomed to her own selfishness, that the possibility of harm, developed by the franchise of pleasure, was not considered in her schemes for entertainment. She thought it natural and amusing "that Sid should flirt with the pretty Mariposilla," and soon played herself, with the emotions of the unsuspicious child, as a cat would have played with the life of a mouse.
In a word, when Marjorie and I had once been established at the ranch of the Doña Maria Del Valle, there would be constant opportunities for pleasure, mingled with novelty. If the hotel grew intolerable, with an influx of stupid, dissatisfied tourists, the ranch might prove a haven in which one could safely linger, sheltered from the interrogations of the irrepressible "tenderfoot." Upon the shaded veranda of the old adobe, fancy work could be pleasantly pursued, or one could simply idle the time, which in Southern California seems without limit, surrounded by congenial society and picturesque associations.
Thus it came about that, believing in the generous sympathy of my new friend, I went with my child to live in the old Spanish home of the Doña Maria Del Valle.
Pervading my satisfaction was a sincere admiration for the woman who could arrange so readily tiresome details, sequestering us, almost immediately upon our arrival in a strange country, in one of the fairest spots of the rare San Gabriel Valley.
CHAPTER IV.
The San Gabriel Valley, in December, is pleasant to look upon. Not as winsome as in February, when the Carnival of the year is born, but serenely beautiful. Cleansing rains have polished every ridge of the Sierra Madre, until purple cañons shine out like treasures of amethyst, while clearly defined spurs, shot with softest green, reflect the promises of the Spring.