should bear his name.

Changing his direction thus, moving directly toward the dropping sun,
he shifted his hat well over his eyes and so was constrained to note
how the weeds were asserting themselves with renewed insolence. He
muttered a soft "_maldito_!" at them which might have been mistaken
for a caress and determined upon a merciless campaign of extermination
just as soon as he could have fitted a new handle to his hoe. Then he
paused in front of the Mission steps and lifted his hat, made an
elegant bow, and smiled in his own inimitable, remarkably fascinating
way. For, under the ragged brim, his eyes had caught a glimpse of a
pretty pair of patent-leather slippers, a prettier pair of
black-stockinged ankles, and the hem of a white starched skirt.

Nowhere are there eyes like the eyes of old Mexico. Deep and soft and
soulful, though the man himself may have a soul like a bit of charred
leather; velvety and tender, though they may belong to an out-and-out
cutthroat; expressive, eloquent even, though they are the eyes of a
peon with no mind to speak of; night-black, and like the night filled
with mystery. Ignacio Chavez lifted such eyes to the eyes of the girl
who had been watching him and spontaneously gave her the last iota of
his ready admiration.

"It is a fine day, señorita," he told her, displaying two glistening
rows of superb teeth friendliwise. "And the garden . . . _Ah, que hay
más bonito en todo el mundo_? You like it, no?"

It was slow music when Ignacio Chavez spoke, all liquid sounds and
tender cadences. When he had cursed the weeds it was like love-making.
A _d_ in his mouth became a softened _th_; from the lips of such as