and stately dons vied with each other in their attentions. The golden sunshine, the golden poppies that flaunted near the casa walls, carried with them no warning of the undiscovered gold that would only too soon make mission and casa a picturesque ruin and the fiesta a memory.

THERE was a mischievous smile on the Occasional Visitor's face as he entered the Sanctum door on the morning before Christmas that caused a question to form on everyone's lips. The old man took from his pocket a half dozen eggs, and tossed them into the air directly above our assembled heads. One struck the Reader on his shining pate and a shower of golden flakes and a dash of rose water covered the victim's shoulders and the manuscript he was reading. The others broke here and there on furniture and among the exchanges, and made us believe for the moment that our firmly believed in reward had come at last, for there was gold everywhere. "We are compadres for the year, my dear Reader. On your head the cascaron descended. Such is the law of the Dons."

The Reader. "Your object lessons in Spanish folk-lore belong to the kindergarten."

The Occasional Visitor. "The cascaron is an empty egg shell filled with spangles and cologne. Its open end is covered with paper and the outside painted in colors. Oft-times gold leaf takes the place of the paper flakes. I saw Don Antonio Coronel one Christmas night break a cascaron filled with five ounces of gold dust one hundred dollars over the lustrous black locks of Señorita Bandini. If the señorita returns the compliment by breaking a cascaron on your willing head then you become partners for the dance."

The Parson. "I think our Occasional Visitor has gone to enough trouble to entitle him to the honor of telling the Christmas story this year, if it be Spanish."

This was a bit of genuine sacrifice on the part of the good man; for certain mysterious hints, since the year before, when we had listened to the Major's pathetic Christmas story, had warned us that the Parson was to be the present narrator. The O. V. was oblivious, however, to all this, and with a sheepish smile he began.

THE OCCASIONAL VISITOR'S STORY.

It was not winter to me, but a glorious spring time with the air laden with the scent of roses, the grass green, and the whole earth quickening in the warm rains. The Firefly lay off the harbor of Monterey, so close in shore that we could hear the angelus, morning and evening, at the old Mission San Carlos.

I REMEMBER it as if it were yesterday - my first winter in California.

We were resting before beginning the long voyage around the Horn. Day after day, we had lingered in this enchanted region, loath to return to the bustle and struggles that awaited us on the other side of the continent. It is a wonder to me,

I would have, had I

now, as I look back upon it all, that I did not desert my ship. known more of the world and how hollow a thing is ambition. The spell is upon me as I go over it once again. Every day was a merienda, or picnic, and the Indians tended the cattle on a thousand hills. I was sitting in the court of Señor Arguello's great hacienda. The waters of a fountain were splashing up among the leaves of a big tree. From the gallery above came the sound of a guitar and in front on the brick-paved floor a graceful señorita was dancing in full skirts and brighthued reboso, her long dark braids swinging back and forth, and over one ear, a red

rose half hidden among the curls. The tap, tap of her little slippers kept time to the clack, clack of the castanets, and I found myself dreaming as the music ceased.

The dancer came close up to me and with a challenging gleam in her wonderful eyes said. "Has Don Patricio his cascarones ready. This is Christmas Eve. There is to be a gran baile at the casa of Don Ignacio Arguello."

Instinctively I glanced up, half expecting to find snow sifting down through the great yellow and green fronds of the palm. In a syringa bush a blue jay was swinging and chattering with wings outstretched in the all pervading sunshine. The castanets clicked and I kissed the tips of the fingers that held them as they swept past my face. A ripple of laughter came from out the darkened patio, and I knew that the young Señora Arguello had been watching our little play.

THE gran sala of the Arguello mansion was filled with the beauty of Monterey on Christmas Eve. Three rows of seats on either side held the spectators, and at the farther end, opposite the door, sat the musicians a violinista in jacket, sash, and slashed breeches, with a red silk handkerchief tied smoothly about his head, and two muchachas aiding with the concertina or by singing and clapping of the hands as the particular dance might require. The Indian slaves in their picturesque costumes filled the deep doors and windows.

The Señor and Señora entered the gran sala as the guests arose. There was the dignity and grace in their bearing of sovereign rulers, and the reception might have been at the Escurial. The Señor was dressed in an old-time Spanish costume — pantaloons of black cloth open on the outer seams below the knees, faced with white silk, and rows of silver bell buttons that gave a faint jingling music as he walked. The sleeves and collar of his silken jacket were embroidered in gold. Around his waist was a red sash, and at his side hung a Toledo blade that had fought the Moors in Spain. The handsome Señora wore a gown of yellow silk, with a red sash extending from the right shoulder to the left side. Her luxuriant black hair was rolled in coils over silver combs and surmounted with a golden crest. Diamonds in rare old settings shone on her neck and arms. The señoritas were dressed in gowns of green, blue, or yellow, the short sleeves reaching just below the elbows, exposing their beautifully round arms. A silken sash, contrasting with the color of the dress, was worn across the bust or around the waist and tied in a "lover's knot" with many colored ribbons. The skirts were of fine muslin, glittering with gilt spangles, and a short jacket of blue, orange, or crimson, covered a waist that was guiltless of corsets.

As the sweet, sensuous strains of La Paloma echoed from the opposite end of the room the master of ceremonies announced the dance. Then the Indian slaves brought in the cascarones and gallant and señorita pelted each other with these fragile emblems of love. In a moment the floor was filled with couples so chosen. It was the first dance of the evening, but the last dance of the compadres of the old year. On Christmas Eve the names of all the señoritas were placed in one box and those of the caballeros in another. Children dressed as cupids drew out the names, first a señor and then a señorita, who were made compadres, or sweethearts, for one year ending with the first dance of the next year,-unless they became compadres for life in the meantime. Thus no señorita need be without cavalier, no matter whether she be rich or poor, beautiful or ugly.

I was not permitted to try my luck with the little blind cupid,- possibly it was

well,

but had I had the fortune to be drawn with the Doña Ynez Arguello then I think I should have blessed my fate and been happy. But Cupid had been unkind to others: Carlota Castro and Juan Martinez had been compadres and sweethearts. Love is blind; happiness a chance; and for an entire year they were to be separated simply because of a game.

The Señora Arguello tapped me on the arm with her fan and whispered, "See, Don Patricio, it is amusing,- they are rivals, Carlota Castro and Margarita Ainsa, and Margarita has won Juan Martinez."

It would have been amusing, but for the fierce, half wild look of hatred and passion that came into the great black eyes of Carlota as Juan bowed over the hand of his new compadre. It sent a creepy feeling down my back, and I felt as though I had seen a naked knife gleaming in the darkness. There was something fascinating in the awful strength of the girl's passion. I moved up close to her, as the Señora rose for the fandango. I heard her whisper to her Indian woman, "Yangua, go to the arroyo seco and bring me a bouquet of the flowers that grow there." The slave gasped,-" Not La Flor de Muerte, Señorita!"

She turned upon the woman so fiercely that for a moment I thought she was going to strike, then the slave slunk out into the deep embrasure of the window.

Had I known that the pale yellowish flowers mottled with reddish spots like drops of blood were the noxious "Flower of Death," I might have been the hero of a typical Christmas story, but I did not, and what seems stranger still few if any seemed to recognize its baleful presence as the girl pressed them to her lips and bosom.

Pedro Cota, her newly chosen compadre, claimed the dance, but she turned upon him as she had turned upon the Indian, and he shrugged his shoulders and passed out on the veranda. From the sneering expression in his face in the flare of a match as he lit his cigarrito I now believe that he knew the flower.

With a motion of her fan the girl summoned Juan to her side. "Dance with me,” she said as the red blood mounted to her dark cheeks.

He hesitated. Her hand closed on his arm. I did not hear more.

In a moment they were dancing the intricate steps of the beautiful fandango. Gradually the other dancers stopped, as one after another realized that the almost sacred law of the compadres was being thus daringly ignored — on Christmas Eve under the eyes of all Monterey.

The actors seemed oblivious to both the attention they were attracting and the gossip that was becoming louder and louder. Only the musicians played on faster and faster. The dance was concluding with a waltz. Carlota pressed the flowers. repeatedly to her lips. Her head almost rested on her companion's shoulder as they whirled over the floor at a maddening pace. The whispering ceased about the room. The smokers came in from the courts. The gayety had given place to an inexplicable feeling of apprehension. Even the two dancers were beginning to notice it. Juan glanced furtively about the sala, and then down into the flushed face of his companion. Carlota pressed the Flower of Death to her lips. A faint odor of opium came to my nostrils. My ignorance made me powerless. "Quick! fast, faster, my Juan, my compadre. It is the last dance the dance of La Flor de Muerte!" A scream echoed from end to end of the great room, and the Indian woman sprang in through the open window. She was too late. The girl fell fainting into her lover's arms. She died on Christmas Day.