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 ley in the San Mateo mountain where he had sunk unconscious under two noble oak trees. He built a house between those twin oaks, and made a fine estate there.

Never reconciled to American rule, Chavez lived in seclusion when he was in Santa Fé. At the first rumour of an Indian outbreak, near or far, he rode off to add a few more scalps to his record. He distrusted the new Bishop because of his friendliness toward Indians and Yankees. Besides, Chavez was a Martinez man. He had come here to-night only in compliment to Señora Olivares; he hated to spend an evening among American uniforms.

When the banjo player was exhausted, Father Joseph said that as for him, he would like a little drawing-room music, and he led Madame Olivares to her harp. She was very charming at her instrument; the pose suited her tip-tilted canary head, and her little foot and white arms.

This was the last time the Bishop heard her sing “La Paloma” for her admiring husband, whose eyes smiled at her even when his heavy face seemed asleep.

Olivares died on Septuagesima Sunday—fell over by his own fire-place when he was lighting the candles after supper, and the banjo boy was sent running for the Bishop. Before midnight two of