Little Myrtle, the orphan girl of San Gabriel, stands at the window of her cabin contemplating the beautiful sun before her; the valley out between the hills bedecked by the hand of Flora, iridescent in the morning light, a veritable Iris. Her pure soul goes out in love to the trees, the flowers and the sun, which is responded in the exhilaration of their perfume. Yet she is obsessed with an insatiable yearning. An orphan, she does not know paternal love; her pure, tender heart does not concur with those around her, for the village is made up of a people abjectly material. There is but one to whom she can evince her generous, affectionate nature, the wife of the innkeeper, who is ill. Each morning she gathers flowers and brings them to her. On this morning we see her flower-laden, making her way to the inn. On the road she meets a Mexican stranger, Estrada. Their hands touch while he assists her in recovering some of the flowers she has dropped
| Name | |
|---|---|
| DW Griffith |
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