There was the very grille through which the wicked Conchita--or, was it Dolores ?--had shot her Parthian glance at the lingering student.

And the man of thirty-five, prematurely gray and settled in fortune, smiled as he turned away, and forgot the adventuress of thirty who had brought him there.
The next morning he was up betimes and at the college of San Jose.
Father Cipriano, a trifle more snuffy and aged, remembered with delight his old pupil.

Ah! it was true, then, that he had become a mining president, and that was why his hair was gray; but he trusted that Don Preble had not forgot that this was not all of life, and that fortune brought great responsibilities and cares.

But what was this, then?
He HAD thought of bringing out some of his relations from the States, and placing a niece in the convent.

That was good and wise.