Here in a small
_rancho_ in a lonely spot called Barranca del Peregrine, and with
only a few sheep and cows to subsist on, he spent the remainder of his
life. His wife, though old, bore him one child, a daughter, named
Transita. They taught her nothing; for in all respects they lived like
peasants and had forgotten the use of books. The situation was also
wild and solitary, and they very seldom saw a strange face. Transita
spent her childhood in rambling over the dunes on that lonely coast,
with only wild flowers, birds, and the ocean waves for playmates. One
day, her age being then about eleven, she was at her usual pastimes,
her golden hair blowing in the wind, her short dress and bare legs wet
with the spray, chasing the waves as they retired, or flying with merry
shouts from them as they hurried back towards the shore, flinging a
cloud of foam over her retreating form, when a youth, a boy of fifteen,
rode up and saw her there. He was hunting ostriches, when, losing sight
of his companions, and finding himself near the ocean, he rode down
to the shore to watch the tide coming in.
"Yes, I was that boy, Richard--you are quick in making conclusions."
This he said not in reply to any remark I had made, but to my thoughts,
which he frequently guessed very aptly.
"The impression this exquisite child made on me it would be impossible
to convey in words.
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