The Russians were to call at the house of the Com-mandante on their way to the Mission, and Concha herself made the chocolate with which they were to be detained for another hour. It was another spark-ling morning, one of the few that came between winter and summer, summer and winter, and made even this bleak peninsula a land of enchantment be-fore the cold winds took the sand hills up by their foundations and drove them down to Yerba Buena, submerging the battery and every green thing by the way; or the great fogs rolled down from the tule lands of the north and in from the sea, making the shivering San Franciscan forget that not ten miles away the sun was as prodigal as youth. For a few weeks San Francisco had her springtime, when the days were warm and the air of a wonder-ful lightness and brightness, the atmosphere so clear that the flowers might be seen on the islands, when man walked with wings on his feet and a song in his heart; when the past was done with, the future mattered not, the present with its ever changing hues on bay and hill, its cool electrical breezes stir-ring imagination and pulse, was all in all.
And it was in San Francisco's springtime that Concha Arguello made chocolate for the Russian to whom she was to give a niche in the history of her land; and sang at her task. She whirled the molinillo in each cup as it was filled, whipping the fragrant liquid to froth; pausing only to scold when her servant stained one of the dainty saucers or cups. Poor Rosa did not sing, although the spring attuned her broken spirit to a gentler melancholy than when the winds howled and the fog was cold in her marrow. She had been sentenced by the last Governor, the wise Borica, to eight years of domes-tic servitude in the house of Don Jose Arguello for abetting her lover in the murder of his wife. Con-cha, thoughtless in many things, did what she could to exorcise the terror and despair that stared from the eyes of the Indian and puzzled her deeply. Rosa adored her young mistress and exulted even when Concha's voice rose in wrath; for was not she noticed by the loveliest senorita in all the Cali-fornias, while others, envious and spiteful to a poor girl no worse than themselves, were ignored?
Concha's cheeks were as pink as the Castilian roses that grew even before the kitchen door and were quivering at the moment under the impas-sioned carolling of a choir of larks. Her black eyes were full of dancing lights, like the imprisoned sum-flecks under the rose bush, and never had indolent Spanish hands moved so quickly.
"Mira! Mira!" she cried to the luckless Rosa.
"That is the third time thou hast spilt the chocolate.
Thy hands are of wood when they should be of air. A soft bit of linen to clean them, not that coarse rag. Dios de mi alma! I shall send for Malia."
"For the love of Mary, senorita, have pity!" wailed Rosa. "There--see--thanks to the Virgin I have poured three cups without spilling a drop. And this rag is of soft linen. Look, Dona Concha, is it not true?"
"Bueno; take care thou leavest not one drop on a saucer and I will forgive thee--do not kiss my hand now, foolish one! How can I whirl the moli-nillo? Be always good and I will burn a candle for thee every time I go to the Mission. The Russians go to the Mission this morning. Hast thou seen the Russians, Rosa?"
"I have seen them, senorita. Did I not serve at table yesterday?"
"True; I had forgotten. What didst thou think of them?"
"What matters it to such great folk what a poor Indian girl thinks of them? They are very fair, which may be the fashion in their country; but I am not accustomed to it; and I like not beards."
"His excellency wore no beard--he who sat on my mother's right and opposite to me."
"He is very grand, senorita; more grand than the Governor, who after all has red hair and is old. He is even grander than Don Jose, whom may the saints preserve; or than the padres at the mission.
Perhaps he is a king, like our King and natural lord in spain. (El rey nuestro y senor natural.)
Is he a king, senorita?"
"No, but he should be. Rosa, thou mayest have my red cloak that came from Mexico--last year.
I have a new one and that is too small. I had intended to give it to Ana Paula, but thou art a good girl and should have a gay mantle for Sunday, like the other girls. I have also a red ribbon for thy hair--"
Rosa spilt half the contents of the chocolate pot on the floor and Concha gave her a sound box on the ear. However, she did not dismiss her, a sen-tence for which the trembling girl prepared herself.
"Make more--quickly!" cried the lady of caprice.
"They come. I hear them. But this is enough for the first. Make the rest and beat with the molinillo as I have done, and Malia will bring all to the cor-ridor."
