Stockton Herald, South Durham and Cleveland Advertiser. — 1887-04-09 (Stockton-on-Tees, Cleveland, England)

STORY OF SANTA CRUZ.  Yes, I decided within myself that I liked the looks of the house very well. It might be larger, but my brother Joseph and myself didn't want an hotel. " Yes, it will do," said I. And I turned and want into the house.  It was rather lonely then. The crimson 1 gleams were fading now into a dull grey 1 monotony. The air from the Pacific was crisp and cold, and the few bits of driftwood on the hearth refused to burn cheerfully, but sulked instead. And there was only one chair in all the room in which one could litenture to sit down, aud the carpet was worn in holes, and the looking-glass was cracked, and the muslin draperies at the window hang all ages, as the children say. I didn't know what a Santa Cruz housekeeper might thi uk of these things, but I was very ,sure that they would not he tolerated at Newport, or Ocean Beach either. But then, I reflected, California is so different from New York. I had eaten ripe figs and white, translucent grapes in the carriage in which old Pedro Martinez hs,d driven mefrom town. I had palsied wildernesses of roses which in Ootober were at their sweetest and 'spiciest bloom. Palm-trees had waved in the humblest door yard, just as maple trees deck our Now England homeiteads, and the bluegreen foliage of the eucalyptus trees had made an awning over my head. Yes, this climate would certainly braes up my brother Joseph's failing health, and I could write my sketches and essays here as well as anywhere else. For I was a literary woman, and my brother Joseph was an artist. There, in two lines, is our history. _ _  Old Pedro had shragged his shoulders when be set down the trunks et his solitary seaside cottage, where the roar of the Pacific kept up a ceaseless undertone, and the beetling roaks frowned .blackly down on us. . - . .  - "Ali," said old Pedro. "Is it here, then, that the signora comes?" "And why shouldn't it be here?" said I, a little curtly. These half-Mexicans never say anything up and down. They hint, they lift their oyobrows, they mutter indistinctly; but tho smartest Tombs' lawyer couldn't cross-question them into an exact statement.  " The signora snits herself," said Pedro. "But one hears strange stories."  "What stories ?"  "The signora has perhaps never hoard of old Bartolo Mendez, who was murdered hero by pyates ?"  " What of him ?" "It was he that built this house." " Why shouldn't he r The s:gliora, then, does not fear ghosts ?" " Not a bit." " She perhaps likes rustling noises, and groans, and" _ _ _  Fiddlesticks!" said I. " Lift down the trunk, Pedro, and tell Mr Barrow to come as soon as possible. And don't you mention a word of your superstitious trash to him." "No, signora," said Pedro, submissively; and he carried in the two trunks and the little leather valise, and urged his long-eared donkey into a homeward trot. I cared nothing for ghosts myself, but I knew that Joseph was nervous and fanciful. And I wished that Pedro had boon obliging enough to hold his tongue. As twilight darkened I coaxed the fire into a blaze, and opened the hamper which the , landlord. at the Mansion House had packed with a substantial supper of cold chicken, ham and sandwiches. Our little kiexitsul