tree-like clusters of hanging fuchsias, mound-like masses of
variegated verbena, and tangled thickets of ceanothus and spreading
heliotrope were set in boundaries of venerable olive, fig, and pear
trees. The old house itself, a picturesque relief to the glaring
newness of the painted villas along the road, had been tastefully
modified to suit the needs and habits of a later civilization; the
galleries of the inner courtyard, or patio, had been transferred to
the outside walls in the form of deep verandas, while the old adobe
walls themselves were hidden beneath flowing Cape jessamine or
bestarred passion vines, and topped by roofs of cylindrical red
tiles.

"Miss Yerba!" said a dry, masculine voice from the veranda.

The taller young girl started, and drew herself suddenly behind a
large Castilian rose-tree, dragging her companion with her, and
putting her finger imperatively upon a pretty but somewhat
passionate mouth. The other girl checked a laugh, and remained
watching her friend's wickedly leveled brows in amused surprise.

The call was repeated from the veranda. After a moment's pause
there was the sound of retreating footsteps, and all was quiet
again.

"Why, for goodness' sake, didn't you answer, Yerba?" asked the
shorter girl.

"Oh, I hate him!" responded Yerba. "He only wanted to bore me with
his stupid, formal, sham-parental talk. Because he's my official
guardian he thinks it necessary to assume this manner towards me