ONE approached the seat of Don Abrahan's vast estate through a lane of olive trees when arriving from the south, as the master of the place and his strange companion came. These olives had been set by Don Abrahan's father, who had in mind the ancient Spanish saying when he made straight the two long rows of little trees:
"A man plants a vine for his son, an olive for his grandson."
Even so, with this slow maturing to the stage of fruitfulness of the olive, the trees which the patriarch had planted were now great and tall. Perhaps they had increased, in that beneficent clime and strong soil, out of a man's knowledge and calculation, compared with the trees of the Iberian slopes; or perhaps the allotment of their years of building had been fulfilled, indicating that Don Abrahan was approaching the bourne of a man's numbered days. Fruit swayed their branches heavily, promise of a profitable gathering; their laden branches sometimes touched the peak of Don Abrahan's tall sombrero as he rode under them.
Don Abrahan's homestead seemed a village set against the foot of the hill that rose high before it. Many corrals and sheds flanked the outlying build-
