Ramona : a story

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RAMONA.

A STORY.

BY HELEN JACKSON
(H. H.),

AUTHOR OF "VERSES," "BITS OF TRAVEL," "BITS OF TRAVEL AT HOME.
"BITS OF TALK ABOUT HOMB MATTERS," ETC

BOSTON

ROBERTS BROTHERS
1889

Copyright, 1SS4,
BY ROBERTS BROTHERS.

JOHN WILSON AND SON. CAMBRIDGE.

Stack
Annex

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186ft

KAMONA.

I.

IT was sheep-shearing time in Southern California ;
but sheep-shearing was late at the Seiiora Moreno's.
The Fates liad seemed to combine to put it off. In
the first place, Felipe Moreno had been ill. He was
the Senora's eldest son, and since his father's death
had been at the head of his mother's house. With
out him, nothing could be done on the ranch, the
Seiiora thought. It had been always, " Ask Senor
Felipe," " Go to Senor Felipe," " Senor Felipe will
attend to it," ever since Felipe had had the dawniug
of a beard on his handsome face.

In truth, it was not Felipe, but the Senora, who
really decided all questions from greatest to least,
and managed everything on the place, from the sheep-
pastures to the artichoke-patch ; but nobody except
the Senora herself knew this. An exceedingly clever
woman for her day and generation was Sefiora Gon-
zaga Moreno, — as for that matter, exceedingly clever
for any day and generation ; but exceptionally clever
for the day and generation to which she belonged.
Her life, the mere surface of it, if it had been written,
would have made a romance, to grow hot and cold
over : sixty years of the best of old Spain and the
wildest of New Spain, Bay of Biscay, Gulf of Mexico,

1

2 RAMONA.

Pacific Ocean, — the waves of them all had tossed
destinies for the Seiiora. The Holy Catholic Church
had had its arms round her from first to last ; and
that was what had brought her safe through, she
would have said, if she had ever said anything ahout
herself, which she never did, — one of her many wis
doms. So quiet, so reserved, so gentle an exterior
never was known to veil such an imperious and pas
sionate nature, brimful of storm, always passing
through stress ; never thwarted, except at peril of
those who did it ; adored and hated by turns, and
each at the hottest. A tremendous force, wherever
she appeared, was Seiiora Moreno ; but no stranger
would suspect it, to see her gliding about, in her
scanty black gown, with her rosary hanging at her
side, her soft dark eyes cast down, and an expression
of mingled melancholy and devotion on her face.
She looked simply like a sad, spiritual-minded old
lady, amiable and indolent, like her race, but sweeter
and more thoughtful than their wont. Her voice
heightened this mistaken impression. She was never
heard to speak either loud or fast. There was at times
even a curious hesitancy in her speech, which came
near being a stammer, or suggested the measured
care with which people speak who have been cured
of stammering. It made her often appear as if she
did not know her own mind : at which people some
times took heart ; when, if they had only known the
truth, they would have known that the speech hesi
tated solely because the Seiiora knew her mind so
exactly that she was finding it hard to make the
words convey it as she desired, or in a way to best
attain her ends.

About this very sheep-shearing there had been,
between her and the head shepherd, Juan Canito,
called Juan Can for short, and to distinguish him
from Juan Jose, the upper herdsman of the cattle,

RAMONA. 3

some discussions which would have been hot and
angry ones in any other hands than the Sefiora's.

Juan Canito wanted the shearing to begin, even
though Sefior Felipe were ill in bed, and though that
lazy shepherd Luigo had not yet got back with the
flock that had been driven up the coast for pasture.
" There were plenty of sheep on the place to begin
with," he said one morning, — "at least a thousand ;"
and by the time they were done, Luigo would surely
be back with the rest ; and as for Sefior Felipe's be
ing in bed, had not he, Juan Canito, stood at the
packing-bag, and handled the wool, when Seiior
Felipe was a boy ? Why could he not do it again ?
The Senora did not realize how time was going ;
there would be no shearers to be hired presently, since
the Senora was determined to have none but Indians.
Of course, if she would employ Mexicans, as all the
other ranches in the valley did, it would be different ;
but she was resolved upon having Indians, — " God
knows why," he interpolated surlily, under his breath.

" I do not quite understand you, Juan," interrupted
Senora Moreno at the precise instant the last syllable
of this disrespectful ejaculation had escaped Juan's
lips ; " speak a little louder. I fear I am growing deaf
in my old age."

What gentle, suave, courteous tones ! and the calm
dark eyes rested on Juan. Canito with a look to the
fathoming of which he was as unequal as one of his
own sheep would have been. He could not have told
why he instantly and involuntarily said, " Beg your
pardon, Senora."

" Oh, you need not ask my pardon, Juan," the Senora
replied with exquisite gentleness ; " it is not you who
are to blame, if I am deaf. I have fancied for a year
I did not hear quite as well as I once did. But about
the Indians, Juan ; did not Sefior Felipe tell you that
lie had positively engaged the same band of shearers

4 RAMONA.

we had last autumn, Alessandro's band from Temec-
ula ? They will wait until we are ready for them.
Sefior Felipe will send a messenger for them. He
thinks them the best shearers in the country. He
will be well enough in a week or two, he thinks, and
the poor sheep must bear their loads a few days
longer. Are they looking well, do you think, Juan ?
Will the crop be a good one ? General Moreno used
to say that you could reckon up the wool-crop to a
pound, while it was on the sheep's backs."

" Yes, Senora," answered the mollified Juan ; " the
poor beasts look wonderfully well considering the
scant feed they have had all winter. We '11 not come
many pounds short of our last year's crop, if any.
Though, to be sure, there is no telling in what case
that — Luigo will bring his flock back."

The Senora smiled, in spite of herself, at the pause
and gulp with which Juari had filled in the hiatus
where he had longed to set a contemptuous epithet
before Luigo's name.

This was another of the instances where the Senora' s
will and Juan Canito's had clashed and he did not
dream of it, having set it all down as usual to the
score of young Senor Felipe.

Encouraged by the Seiiora's smile, Juan proceeded :
" Sefior Felipe can see no fault in Luigo, because they
were boys together; but I can tell him, he will rue it,
one of these mornings, when he finds a flock of sheep
worse than dead on his hands, and no thanks to any
body but Luigo. While I can have him under my
eye, here in the valley, it is all very well ; but he is
no more fit to take responsibility of a flock, than one
of the very lambs themselves. He '11 drive them off
their feet one day, and starve them the next ; and
I 've known him to forget to give them water. When
he 's in his dreams, the Virgin only knows what he
won't do."

RAM ON A. 5

During this brief and almost unprecedented out
burst of Juan's the Seiiora's countenance had been
slowly growing stern. Juan had not seen it. His
eyes had been turned away from her, looking down
into the upturned eager face of his favorite colley,
who was leaping and gambolling and barking at his
feet.

" Down, Capitan, down ! " he said in a fond tone,
gently repulsing him ; " thou makest such a noise
the Sefiora can hear nothing but thy voice."

" I heard only too distinctly, Juan Canito," said
the Senora in a sweet but icy tone. " It is not well
for one servant to backbite another. It gives me
great grief to hear such words ; and I hope when
Father Salvierderra comes, next month, you will not
forget to confess this sin of which you have been
guilty in thus seeking to injure a fellow-being. If
Seiior Felipe listens to you, the poor boy Luigo will
be cast out homeless on the world some day ; and
what sort of a deed would that be, Juan Canito, for
one Christian to do to another ? I fear the Father
will give you penance, when he hears what you have
said."

" Senora, it is not to harm the lad," Juan began,
every fibre of his faithful frame thrilling with a sense
of the injustice of her reproach.

But the Senora had turned her back. Evidently
she would hear no more from him then. He stood
watching her as she walked away, at her usual slow
pace, her head slightly bent forward, her rosary lifted
in her left hand, and the fingers of the right hand me
chanically slipping the beads.

"Prayers, always prayers !" thought Juan to him
self, as his eyes followed her. " If they '11 take one
to heaven, the Senora '11 go by the straight road,
that 's sure ! I 'm sorry I vexed her. But what 's a
man to do, if he 's the interest of the place at heart,

6 RAM ON A.

I 'd like to know. Is he to stand by, and see a lot of
idle mooning louts run away with everything ? Ah,
but it was an ill day for the estate when the General
died, — an ill day ! an ill day ! And they may scold
me as much as they please, and set me to confessing
my sins to the Father ; it 's very well for them, *
they 've got me to look after matters. Senor Felipe
will do well enough when he 's a man, maybe ; but
a boy like him ! Bah ! " And the old man stamped
his foot with a not wholly unreasonable irritation, at
the false position in which he felt himself put.

" Confess to Father Salvierderra, indeed ! " he mut
tered aloud. " Ay, that will I. He 's a man of
sense, if he is a priest," — at which slip of the tongue
the pious Juan hastily crossed himself, — " and I '11
ask him to give me some good advice as to how I 'm to
manage between this young boy at the head of every
thing, and a doting mother who thinks he has the
wisdom of a dozen grown men. The Father knew
the place in the olden time. He knows it 's no child's
play to look after the estate even now, much smaller
as it is ! An ill day when the old General died, an
ill day indeed, the saints rest his soul ! " Saying this,
Juan shrugged his shoulders, and whistling to Capi-
tan, walked towards the sunny veranda of the south
side of the kitchen wing of the house, where it had
been for twenty odd years his habit to sit on the
long bench and smoke his pipe of a morning. Before
he had got half-way across the court-yard, however,
a thought struck him. He halted so suddenly that
Capitan, with the quick sensitiveness of his breed,,
thought so sudden a change of purpose could only
come from something in connection with sheep ; and,
true to his instinct of duty, pricked up his ears, poised
himself for a full run, and looked up in his master's
face waiting for explanation and signal. But Juan
did not observe him.

RAMONA. 7

"Ha! "he said, "Father Salvierderra comes next,
month, does he ? Let 's see. To-day is the 25th.
That 's it. The sheep-shearing is not to come oil
till the Father gets here. Then each morning it will
be mass in the chapel, and each night vespers ; and
the crowd will be here at least two days longer to
feed, for the time they will lose by that and by the
confessions. That 's what Senor Felipe is up to.
He 's a pious lad. I recollect now, it was the same
way two years ago. Well, well, it is a good thing for
those poor Indian devils to get a bit of religion now
and then ; and it's like old times to see the chapel
full of them kneeling, and more than can get in at
the door ; I doubt not it warms the Sefiora's heart to
see them all there, as if they belonged to the house,
as they used to : and now I know when it 's to be, I
have only to make my arrangements accordingly. It
is always in the first week of the month the Father
gets here. Yes ; she said, ' Seiior Felipe will be well
enough in a week or two, he thinks.' Ha ! ha ! It
will be nearer two ; ten days or thereabouts. I '11
begin the booths next week. A plague on that Luigo
for not being back here. He 's the best hand I have
to cut the willow boughs for the roofs. He knows
the difference between one year's growth and an
other's ; I '11 say that much for him, spite of the silly
dreaming head he 's got on his shoulders."

Juan was so pleased with this clearing up in his
mind as to Senor Felipe's purpose about the time of
the sheep-shearing, that it put him in good humor
for the day, — good humor with everybody, and
himself most of all. As he sat on the low bench,
his head leaning back against the whitewashed wall,
his long legs stretched out nearly across the whole
width of the veranda, his pipe firm wedged in
the extreme left corner of his mouth, his hands in
his pockets, he was the picture of placid content.

8 RAMONA.

The troop of youngsters which still swarmed around
the kitchen quarters of Senora Moreno's house, al
most as numerous and inexplicable as in the grand
old days of the General's time, ran back and forth
across Juan s legs, fell down between them, and
picked themselves up by help of clutches at his
leather trousers, all unreproved by Juan, though
loudly scolded and warned by their respective mothers
from the kitchen.

" What 's come to Juan Can to be so good-natured
to-day ? " saucily asked Margarita, the youngest and
prettiest of the maids, popping her head out of a
window, and twitching Juan's hair. He was so gray
and wrinkled that the maids all felt at ease with
him. He seemed to them as old as Methuselah ; but
he was not really so old as they thought, nor they so
safe in their tricks. The old man had hot blood in
his veins yet, as the under-shepherds could testify.

" The sight of your pretty face, Sefiorita Margarita,"
answered Juan quickly, cocking his eye at her, rising
to his feet, and making a mock bow towards the
window.

" He ! he ! Senorita, indeed ! " chuckled Margarita's
mother, old Marda the cook. " Senor Juan Cauito is
pleased to be merry at the doors of his betters ; " and
she flung a copper saucepan full of not over-clean
water so deftly past Juan's head, that not a drop
touched him, and yet he had the appearance of hav
ing been ducked. At which bit of sleight-of-hand
the whole court-yard, young and old, babies, cocks,
hens, and turkeys, all set up a shout and a cackle, and
dispersed to the four corners of the yard as if scat
tered by a volley of bird-shot. Hearing the racket,
the rest of the maids came running, — Anita and
Maria, the twins, women forty years old, born on the
place the year after General Moreno brought home
his handsome young bride ; their two daughters,

RAMONA. 9

Hosa and Anita the Little, as she was still called,
though she outweighed her mother ; old Juanita, the
oldest woman in the household, of whom even the
Senora was said not to know the exact age or history ;
and she, poor thing, could tell nothing, having been
silly for ten years or more, good for nothing except
to shell beans : that she did as fast and well as ever,
and was never happy except she was at it. Luckily
for her, beans are the one crop never omitted or
stinted on a Mexican estate ; and for sake of old Jua
nita they stored every year in the Moreno house, rooms
full of beans in the pod (tons of them, one would
think), enough to feed an army. But then, it was
like a little army even now, the Senora's household ;
nobody ever knew exactly how many women were in
the kitchen, or how many men in the fields. There
were always women cousins, or brother's wives or
widows or daughters, who had come to stay, or men
cousins, or sister's husbands or sons, who were stop
ping on their way up or down the valley. When it
came to the pay-roll, Seiior Felipe knew to whom he
paid wages ; but who were fed and lodged under his
roof, that was quite another thing. It could not enter
into the head of a Mexican gentleman to make either
count or account of that. It would be a disgraceful
niggardly thought.

To the Senora it seemed as if there were no longer
any people about the place. A beggarly handful, she
would have said, hardly enough to do the work of the
house, or of the estate, sadly as the latter had dwindled.
In the General's day, it had been a free-handed boast
of his that never less than fifty persons, men, women
and children, were fed within his gates each day ; how
many more, he did not care, nor know. But that time
had indeed gone, gone forever ; and though a stranger,
seeing the sudden rush and muster at door and win
dow, which followed on old Marda's letting ily the

10 RAM ON A.

water at Juan's head, would have thought, " Good
heavens, do all those women, children, and babies
belong in that one house ! " the Sefiora's sole thought,
as she at that moment went past the gate, was, " Poor
tilings ! how few there are left of them ! I am afraid
old Marda has to work too hard. I must spare
Margarita more from the house to help her." And
she sighed deeply, and unconsciously held her rosary
nearer to her heart, as she went into the house and
entered her son's bedroom. The picture she saw
there was one to thrill any mother's heart; and as
it met her eye, she paused on the threshold for a
second, — only a second, however; and nothing could
have astonished Felipe Moreno so much as to have
been told that at the very moment when his mother's
calm voice was saying to him, " Good morning, my
son, I hope you have slept well, and are better,"
there was welling up in her heart a passionate ejacu
lation, " 0 my glorious son ! The saints have sent me
in him the face of his father! He is fit for a king
dom ! "

The truth is, Felipe Moreno was not fit for a king
dom at all. If he had been, he would not have been
so ruled by his mother without ever finding it out.
But so far as mere physical beauty goes, there never
was a king born, whose face, stature, and bearing
would set off a crown or a throne, or any of the things
of which the outside of royalty is made up, better
than would Felipe Moreno's. And it was true, as the
Sefiora said, whether the saints had anything to do
with it or not, that he had the face of his father. So
strong a likeness is seldom seen. When Felipe once, on
the occasion of a grand celebration and procession, put
on the gold-wrought velvet mantle, gayly embroidered
short breeches fastened at the knee with red ribbons,
and gold-and-silver-trimmed sombrero, which his fa
ther had worn twenty-five years before, the Sefiora

RAMON A. 11

fainted at her first look at him, — fainted and fell ; and
when she opened her eyes, and saw the same splendid,
gayly arrayed, dark-bearded man, bending over her
in distress, with words of endearment and alarm, she
fainted again.

" Mother, mother mia," cried Felipe, " I will not
wear them if it makes you feel like this ! Let me
take them off. I will not go to their cursed parade ; "
and he sprang to his feet, and began with trembling
fingers to unbuckle the sword-belt.

" No, no, Felipe," faintly cried the Seriora, from the
ground. " It is my wish that you wear them ; " and
staggering to her feet, with a burst of tears, she re-
buckled the old sword-belt, which her fingers had so
many times — never unkissed — buckled, in the days
when her husband had bade her farewell and gone
forth to the uncertain fates of war. " Wear them ! "
she cried, with gathering fire in her tones, and her
eyes dry of tears, — " wear them, and let the Ameri
can hounds see what a Mexican officer and gentleman
looked like before they had set their base, usurping
feet on our necks ! " And she followed him to the
gate, and stood erect, bravely waving her handker
chief as he galloped off, till he was out of sight.
Then with a changed face and a bent head she crept
slowly to her room, locked herself in, fell on her knees
before the Madonna at the head of her bed, and spent
the greater part of the day praying that she might
be forgiven, and that all heretics might be discom
fited. From which part of these supplications she
derived most comfort is easy to imagine.

Juan Canito had been right in his sudden surmise
that it was for Father Salvierderra's coining that the
sheep-shearing was being delayed, and not in conse
quence of "Seiior Felipe's illness, or by the non-appear
ance of Luigo and his flock of sheep. Juan would
have chuckled to himself still more at his perspicacity,

12 RAMONA.

had he overheard the conversation going on between
the Sefiora and her son, at the very time when he,
half asleep on the veranda, was, as he would have
called it, putting two and two together and convin
cing himself that old Juan was as smart as they were,
and not to be kept in the dark by all their reticence
and equivocation.

"Juan Can is growing very impatient about the
sheep-shearing," said the Sefiora. " I suppose you are
still of the same mind about it, Felipe, — that it is
better to wait till Father Salvierderra comes ? As the
only chance those Indians have of seeing him is here,
it would seem a Christian duty to so arrange it, if it
be possible ; but Juan is very restive. He is getting
old, and chafes a little, I fancy, under your control.
He cannot forget that you were a boy on his knee.
Now I, for my part, am like to forget that you were
ever anything but a man for me to lean on."

Felipe turned his handsome face toward his
mother with a beaming smile of filial affection and
gratified manly vanity. " Indeed, my mother, if I
can be sufficient for you to lean on, I will ask noth
ing more of the saints;" and he took his mother's thin
and wasted little hands, both at once, in his own
strong right hand, and carried them to his lips as a
lover might have done. " You will spoil me, mother,"
he said, " you make me so proud."

" No, Felipe, it is I who am proud," promptly re
plied the mother ; " and I do not call it being proud,
only grateful to God for having given me a son wise
enough to take his father's place, and guide and pro
tect me through the few remaining years I have to
live. I shall die content, seeing you at the head of
the estate, and living as a Mexican gentleman should ;
that is, so far as now remains possible in this unfortu
nate country. But about the sheep-shearing, Felipe.
Do you wish to have it begun before the Father is

RAMONA. 13

here ? Of course, Alessaiidro is all ready with his
band. It is but two days' journey for a messenger
to bring him. Father Salvierderra cannot be here
before the 10th of the month. He leaves Santa
Barbara on the 1st, and he will walk all the way, — a
good six days' journey, for he is old now and feeble ;
then he must stop in Ventura for a Sunday, and a day
at the Ortega's ranch, and at the Lopez's, — there,
there is a christening. Yes, the 10th is the very
earliest that he can be here, — near two weeks from
now. So far as your getting up is concerned, it
might perhaps be next week. You will be nearly
well by that time."

" Yes indeed," laughed Felipe, stretching himself
out in the bed and giving a kick to the bedclothes
that made the high bedposts and the fringed canopy
roof shake and creak ; " I am well now, if it were
not for this cursed weakness when I stand on my feet.
I believe it would do me good to get out of doors."

In truth, Felipe had been hankering for the sheep-
shearing himself. It was a brisk, busy, holiday sort
of time to him, hard as he worked in it ; and two
weeks looked long to wait.

" It is always thus after a fever," said his mother.
"The weakness lasts many weeks. I am not sure
that you will be strong enough even in two weeks to
do the packing ; but, as Juan Can said this morning,
he stood at the packing-bag when you were a boy,
and there was no need of waiting for you for that ! "

" He said that, did he ! " exclaimed Felipe, wrath-
fully. " The old man is getting insolent. I '11 tell
him that nobody will pack the sacks but myself,
while I am master here ; and I will have the sheep-
shearing when I please, and not before."

" I suppose it would not be wise to say that it
is not to take place till the Father comes, would it ? "
asked the Sefiora, hesitatingly, as if the thing were

14 RAMOXA.

evenly balanced in her mind. " The Father has not
that hold on the younger men he used to have, and
I have thought that even in Juan himself I have de
tected a remissness. The spirit of unbelief is spread
ing in the country since the Americans are running
up and down everywhere seeking money, like dogs
with their noses to the ground ! It might vex Juan
if he knew that you were waiting only for the Father.
What do you think ? "

" I think it is enough for him to know that the
sheep-shearing waits for my pleasure," answered
Felipe, still wrathful, "and that is the end of it."
And so it was ; and, moreover, precisely the end
which Seiiora Moreno had had in her own mind from
the beginning ; but not even Juan Canito himself
suspected its being solely her purpose, and not her
son's. As for Felipe, if any person had suggested to
him that it was his mother, and not he, who had de
cided that the sheep-shearing would better be deferred
until the arrival of Father Salvierderra from Santa
Barbara, and that nothing should be said on tho
ranch about this being the real reason of the post
poning, Felipe would have stared in astonishment,
and have thought that person either crazy or a fool.

To attain one's ends in this way is the consum
mate triumph of art. Never to appear as a factor in
the situation ; to be able to wield other men, as in
struments, with the same direct and implicit response
to will that one gets from a hand or a foot, — this is
to triumph, indeed : to be as nearly controller and
conqueror of Fates as fate permits. There have been
men prominent in the world's affairs at one time and
another, who have sought and studied such a power
and have acquired it to a great degree. By it they
have manipulated legislators, ambassadors, sover
eigns ; and have grasped, held, and played with the
destinies of empires. But it is to be questioned

RAMON A. 15

whether even in these notable instances there has
ever been so marvellous completeness of success as is
sometimes seen in the case of a woman in whom the
power is an instinct and not an attainment ; a pas
sion rather than a purpose. Between the two results,
between the two processes, there is just that differ
ence which is always to be seen between the stroke
of talent and the stroke of genius.

Seiiora Moreno's was the stroke of genius.

II.

THE Senora Moreno's house was one of the best
specimens to be found in California of the rep
resentative house of the half barbaric, half elegant,
wholly generous and free-handed life led there by
Mexican men and women of degree in the early part
of This century, under the rule of the Spanish and
Mexican viceroys, when the laws of the Indies
were still the law of the land, and its old name,
" New Spain," was an ever-present link and stimulus
to the warmest memories and deepest patriotisms of
its people.

It was a picturesque life, with more of sentiment
and gayety in it, more also that was truly dramatic,
more romance, than will ever be seen again on those
sunny shores. The aroma of it all lingers there still ;
industries and inventions have not yet slain it; it
will last out its century, — in fact, it can never be
quite lost, so long as there is left standing one such
house as the Senora Moreno's.

When the house was built, General Moreno owned
all the land within a radius of forty miles, — forty
miles westward, down the valley to the sea ; forty
miles eastward, into the San Fernando Mountains ;
and good forty miles more or less along the coast.
The boundaries were not very strictly defined ; there
was no occasion, in those happy days, to reckon land
by inches. It might be asked, perhaps, just how
General Moreno owned all this land, and the question
might not be easy to answer. It was not and could
not be answered to the satisfaction of the United

RAMONA. 17

States Land Commission, which, after the surrender of
California, undertook to sift and adjust Mexican land-
titles ; and that was the way it had come about that
the Sefiora Moreno now called herself a poor woman.
Tract after tract, her lands had been taken away
•from her; it looked for a time as if nothing would
be left. Every one of the claims based on deeds of
gift from Governor Pio Pico, her husband's most
intimate friend, was disallowed. They all went by
the board in one batch, and took away from the
Seiiora in a day the greater part of her best pasture-
lands. They were lands which had belonged to the
Bona ventura Mission, and lay along the coast at the
mouth of the valley down which the little stream
which ran past her house went to the sea; and it
had been a great pride and delight to the Seiiora, when
she was young, to ride that forty miles by her hus
band's side, all the way on their own lands, straight
from their house to their own strip of shore. No
wonder she believed the Americans thieves, and spoke
of them always as hounds. The people of the United
States have never in the least realized that the tak
ing possession of California was not only a conqiier-
ing of Mexico, but a conquering of California as well ;
that the real bitterness of the surrender was not so
much to the empire which gave up the country, as to
the country itself which was given up. Provinces
passed back and forth in that way, helpless in the
hands of great powers, have all the ignominy and
humiliation of defeat, with none of the dignities or
compensations of the transaction.
' Mexico saved much by her treaty, spite of having
to acknowledge herself beaten ; but California lost
all. Words cannot tell the sting of such a transfer.
It is a marvel that a Mexican remained in the coun
try ; probably none did, except those who were abso
lutely forced to it.

2

18 RAMONA.

Luckily for the Senora Moreno, her title to the lands
midway in the valley was better than to those lying
to the east and the west, which had once belonged to
the missions of San Fernando and Bonaventura ; and
after all the claims, counter-claims, petitions, appeals,
and adjudications were ended, she still was left in un
disputed possession of what would have been thought
by any new-comer into the country to be a handsome
estate, but which seemed to the despoiled and indig
nant Senora a pitiful fragment of one. Moreover, she
declared that she should never feel secure of a foot of
even this. Any day, she said, the United States Gov
ernment might send out a new Laud Commission to
examine the decrees of the first, and revoke such as
they saw fit. Once a thief, always a thief. Nobody
need feel himself safe under American rule. There
was no knowing what might happen any day ; and
year by year the lines of sadness, resentment, anxiety,
and antagonism deepened on the Sefiora's fast aging
face.

It gave her unspeakable satisfaction, when the
Commissioners, laying out a road down the valley, ran
it at the back of her house instead of past the front.
" It is well," she said. " Let their travel be where it
belongs, behind our kitchens ; and no one have sight
of the front doors of our houses, except friends who
have come to visit us." Her enjoyment of this never
flagged. Whenever she saw, passing the place, wag
ons or carriages belonging to the hated Americans, it
gave her a distinct thrill of pleasure to think that
the house turned its back on them. She would like
always to be able to do the same herself; but what
ever she, by policy or in business, might be forced to
do, the old house, at any rate, would always keep the
attitude of contempt, — its face turned away.

One other pleasure she provided herself with, soon
after this road was opened, — a pleasure in which

RAMONA. 19

religious devotion and race antagonism were so closely
blended that it would have puzzled the subtlest of
priests to decide whether her act were a sin or a
virtue. She caused to be set up, upon every one of
the soft rounded hills which made the beautiful rolling
sides of that part of the valley, a large wooden cross ;
not a hill in si<>'ht of her house left without the sacred

o

emblem of her faith. " That the heretics may know,
when they go by, that they are on the estate of a
good Catholic," she said, " and that the faithful may
be reminded to pray. There have been miracles of
conversion wrought on the most hardened by a sud
den sight of the Blessed Cross."

There they stood, summer and winter, rain and
shine, the silent, solemn, outstretched arms, and be
came landmarks to many a guideless traveller who
had been told that his way would be by the first
turn to the left or the right, after passing the last one
of the Sefiora Moreno's crosses, which he could n't
miss seeing. And who shall say that it did not often
happen that the crosses bore a sudden message to
some idle heart journeying by, and thus justified the
pious half of the Senora's impulse ? Certain it is,
that many a good Catholic halted and crossed him
self when he first beheld them, in the lonely places,
standing out in sudden relief against the blue sky;
and if he said a swift short prayer at the sight, was
he not so much the better ?

The house was of adobe, low, with a wide veran
da on the three sides of the inner court, and a still
broader one across the entire front, which looked to
tthe south. These verandas, especially those on the
inner court, were supplementary rooms to the house.
The greater part of the family life went on in them.
Nobody stayed inside the walls, except when it was
necessary. All the kitchen work, except the actual
cooking, was done here, in front of the kitchen doors

20 RAMONA.

and windows. Babies slept, were washed, sat in the
dirt, and played, on the veranda. The women said
their prayers, took their naps, and wove their lace
there. Old Juanita shelled her beans there, and
threw the pods down on the tile floor, till towards
night they were sometimes piled up high around her,
like corn-husks at a husking. The herdsmen and
shepherds smoked there, lounged there, trained their
dogs there ; there the young made love, and the old
dozed ; the benches, which ran the entire length of
the walls, were worn into hollows, and shone like
satin; the tiled floors also were broken and sunk in
places, making little wells, which filled up in times
of hard rains, and were then an invaluable addition
to the children's resources for amusement, and also to
the comfort of the dogs, cats, and fowls, who picked
about among them, taking sips from each.

The arched veranda along the front was a delight
some place. It must have been eighty feet long, at
least, for the doors of five large rooms opened on it.
The two westernmost rooms had been added on, and
made four steps higher than the others ; which gave
to that end of the veranda the look of a balcony, or
loggia. Here the Seiiora kept her flowers ; great red
water-jars, hand-made by the Indians of San Luis
Obispo Mission, stood in close rows against the walls,
and in them were always growing fine geraniums,
carnations, and yellow-flowered musk. The Seiiora' s
passion for musk she had inherited from her mother.
It was so strong that she sometimes wondered at it ;
and one day, as she sat with Father Salvierderra in
the veranda, she picked a handful of the blossoms,
and giving them to him, said, " I do not know why
it is, but it seems to me if I were dead I could be
brought to life by the smell of musk."

"It is in your blood, Senora," the old monk re
plied. " When I was last in your father's house in

RAMONA. 21

Seville, your mother sent for me to her room, and
under her window was a stone balcony full of grow
ing musk, which so filled the room with its odor that
I was like to faint. But she said it cured her of dis
eases, and without it she fell ill. You were a baby
then."

" Yes," cried the Senora, " but I recollect that
balcony. I recollect being lifted up to a window,
and looking down into a bed of blooming yellow
flowers ; but I did not know what they were. How
strange ! "

" No. Not strange, daughter," replied Father Sal-
vierderra. " It would have been stranger if you had
not acquired the taste, thus drawing it in with the
mother's milk. It would behoove mothers to remem
ber this far more than they do."

Besides the geraniums and carnations and musk
in the red jars, there were many sorts of climbing
vines, — some coming from the ground, and twining
around the pillars of the veranda ; some growing in
great bowls, swung by cords from the roof of the
veranda, or set on shelves against the walls. These
bowls were of gray stone, hollowed and polished,
shining smooth inside and out. They also had been
made by the Indians, nobody knew how many ages
ago, scooped and polished by the patient creatures,
with only stones for tools.

Among these vines, singing from morning till night,
hung the Senora' s canaries and finches, half a dozen
of each, all of different generations, raised by the
Senora. She was never without a young bird-family
on hand ; and all the way from Bonaventura to
Monterey, it was thought a piece of good luck to
come into possession of a canary or finch of Senora
Moreno's raising.

Between the veranda and the river meadows, out
on which it looked, all was garden, orange grove, and

22 RAMONA.

almond orchard ; the orange grove always green,
never without snowy bloom or golden fruit ; the
garden never without flowers, summer or winter ; and
the almond orchard, in early spring, a fluttering can
opy of pink and white petals, which, seen from the
hills on the opposite side of the river, looked as if
rosy sunrise clouds had fallen, and become tangled
in the tree-tops. On either hand stretched away
other orchards, — peach, apricot, pear, apple, pome
granate ; and beyond these, vineyards. Nothing was
to be seen but verdure or bloom or fruit, at whatever
time of year you sat on the Senora' s south veranda.

A wide straight walk shaded by a trellis so knotted
and twisted with grapevines that little was to be
seen of the trellis wood- work, led straight down from
the veranda steps, through the middle of the garden,
to a little brook at the foot of it. Across this brook,
in the shade of a dozen gnarled old willow-trees, were
set the broad flat stone washboards on which was
done all the family washing. No long dawdling, and
no running away from work on the part of the maids,
thus close to the eye of the Seiiora at the upper end of
the garden ; and if they had known how picturesque
they looked there, kneeling on the grass, lifting the
dripping linen out of the water, rubbing it back and
forth on the stones, sousing it, wringing it, splashing
the clear water in each other's faces, they would have
been content to stay at the washing day in and day
out, for there was always somebody to look on from
above. Hardly a day passed that the Seiiora had not
visitors. She was still a person of note ; her house
' the natural resting-place for all who journeyed through
the valley ; and whoever came, spent all of his time,
when not eating, sleeping, or walking over the place,
sitting with the Senora on the sunny veranda. Few
days in winter were cold enough, and in summer the
day must be hot indeed to drive the Senora and her

RAMONA. . 23

friends indoors. There stood on the veranda three
carved oaken chairs, and a carved bench, also of oak,
which had been brought to the Senora for safe keeping
by the faithful old sacristan of San Luis Key, at the
time of the occupation of that Mission by the United
States troops, soon after the conquest of California.
Aghast at the sacrilegious acts of the soldiers, who
were quartered in the very church itself, and amused
themselves by making targets of the eyes and noses
of the saints' statues, the sacristan, stealthily, day by
day and night after night, bore out of the church all
that he dared to remove, burying some articles in
cottonwood copses, hiding others in his own poor
little hovel, until he had wagon-loads of sacred treas
ures. Then, still more stealthily, he carried them, a
few at a time, concealed in the bottom of a cart, under
a load of hay or of brush, to the house of the Senora,
who felt herself deeply honored by his confidence, and
received everything as a sacred trust, to be given back
into the hands of the Church again, whenever the
Missions should be restored, of which at that time all
Catholics had good hope. And so it had come about
that no bedroom in the Sefiora's house was without
a picture or a statue of a saint or of the Madonna ;
and some had two ; and in the little chapel in the
garden the altar was surrounded by a really imposing
row of holy and apostolic figures, which had looked
down on the splendid ceremonies of the San Luis Eey
Mission, in Father Peyri's time, no more benignly than
they now did on the humbler worship of the Sefiora's
family in its diminished estate. That one had lost
an eye, another an arm, that the once brilliant colors
of the drapery were now faded and shabby, only en
hanced the tender reverence with which the Senora
knelt before them, her eyes filling with indignant
tears at thought of the heretic hands which had
wrought such defilement. Even the crumbling

24 • RAMONA.

wreaths which had been placed on some of these
statues' heads at the time of the last ceremonial at
which they had figured in the Mission, had been
brought away with them by the devout sacristan, and
the Seiiora had replaced each one, holding it only a
degree less sacred than the statue itself.

This chapel was dearer to the Senora than her
house. It had been built by the General in the sec
ond year of their married life. In it her four children
had been christened, and from it all but one, her hand
some Felipe, had been buried while they were yet
infants. In the Greneral's time, while the estate was
at its best, and hundreds of Indians living within its
borders, there was many a Sunday when the scene to
be witnessed there was like the scenes at the Missions,
— the chapel full of kneeling men and women ; those
who could not find room inside kneeling on the gar
den walks outside ; Father Salvierderra, in gorgeous
vestments, coming, at close of the services, slowly
down the aisle, the close-packed rows of worshippers
parting to right and left to let him through, all look
ing up eagerly for his blessing, women giving him
offerings of fruit or flowers, and holding up their
babies that he might lay his hands on their heads.
No one but Father Salvierderra had ever officiated in
the Moreno chapel, or heard the confession of a Mo
reno. He was a Franciscan, one of the few now left
in the country ; so revered and beloved by all who
had come under his influence, that they would wait
long months without the offices of the Church, rather
than confess their sins or confide their perplexities to
any one else. From this deep-seated attachment on
the part of the Indians and the older Mexican families
in the country to the Franciscan Order, there had
grown up, not unnaturally, some jealousy of them in
the minds of the later-come secular priests, and the
position of the few monks left was not wholly a

RAMONA. 25

pleasant one. It had even been rumored that they
were to be forbidden to continue longer their practice
of going up and down the country, ministering every
where ; were to be compelled to restrict their labors
to their own colleges at Santa Barbara and Santa
Inez. When something to this effect was one day
said in the Seilora Moreno's presence, two scarlet
spots sprang on her cheeks, and before she bethought
herself, she exclaimed, " That day, I burn down my
chapel ! "

Luckily, nobody but Felipe heard the rash threat,
and his exclamation of unbounded astonishment re
called the Sefiora to herself.

"I spoke rashly, my son," she said. "The Church
is to be obeyed always ; but the Franciscan Fathers
are responsible to no one but the Superior of their
own order ; and there is no one in this land who has
the authority to forbid their journeying and minister
ing to whoever desires their offices. As for these
Catalan priests who are coming in here, I cannot
abide them. No Catalan but has bad blood in his
veins ! "

There was every reason in the world why the
Seilora should be thus warmly attached to the Fran
ciscan Order. From her earliest recollections the
gray gown and cowl had been familiar to her eyes,
and had represented the things which she was taught
to hold most sacred and dear. Father Salvierderra
himself had come from Mexico to Monterey in the
same ship which had brought her father to be the
commandante of the Santa Barbara Presidio ; and her
best-beloved uncle, her father's eldest brother, was at
that time the Superior of the Santa Barbara Mission.
The sentiment and romance of her youth were almost
equally divided between the gayeties, excitements,
adornments of the life at the Presidio, and the
ceremonies and devotions of the life at the Mission.

26 RAMONA.

She was famed as the most beautiful girl in the coun
try. Men of the army, men of the navy, and men of
the Church, alike adored her. Her name was a toast
from Monterey to San Diego. When at last she was
wooed and won by Felipe Moreno, one of the most
distinguished of the Mexican generals, her wedding
ceremonies were the most splendid ever seen in the
country. The right tower of the Mission church at
Santa Barbara had been just completed, and it was
arranged that the consecration of this tower should
take place at the time of her wedding, and that her
wedding feast should be spread in the long outside
corridor of the Mission building. The whole country,
far and near, was bid. The feast lasted three days ;
open tables to everybody; singing, dancing, eating,
drinking, and making merry. At that time there
were long streets of Indian houses stretching east
ward from the Mission ; before each of these houses
was built a booth of green boughs. The Indians, as
well as the Fathers from all the other Missions, were
invited to come. The Indians came in bands, sing
ing songs and bringing gifts. As they appeared, the
Santa Barbara Indians went out to meet them, also
singing, bearing gifts, and strewing seeds on the
ground, in token of welcome. The young Senora and
her bridegroom, splendidly clothed, were seen of all,
and greeted, whenever they appeared, by showers of
seeds and grains and blossoms. On the third day,
still in their wedding attire, and bearing lighted
caudles in their hands, they walked with the monks
in a procession, round and round the new tower, the
monks chanting, and sprinkling incense and holy
water on its walls, the ceremony seeming to all devout
beholders to give a blessed consecration to the union
of the young pair as well as to the newly completed
tower. After this they journeyed in state, accom
panied by several of the General's aids and officers,

RAMONA. 27

and by two Franciscan Fathers, up to Monterey, stop
ping on their way at all the Missions, and being
warmly welcomed and entertained at each.

General Moreno was much beloved by both army
and Church. In many of the frequent clashings be
tween the military and the ecclesiastical powers he,
being as devout and enthusiastic a Catholic as he was
zealous and enthusiastic a soldier, had had the good
fortune to be of material assistance to each party.
The Indians also knew his name well, having heard
it many times mentioned with public thanksgivings
in the Mission churches, after some signal service
he had rendered to the Fathers either in Mexico or
Monterey. And now, by taking as his bride the
daughter of a distinguished officer, and the niece of
the Santa Barbara Superior, he had linked himself
anew to the two dominant powers and interests of the
country.

When they reached San Luis Obispo, the whole
Indian population turned out to meet them, the
Padre walking at the head. As they approached the
Mission doors the Indians swarmed closer and closer
and still closer, took the General's horse by the head,
and finally almost by actual force compelled him to
allow himself to be lifted into a blanket, held high up
by twenty strong men ; and thus he was borne up the
steps, across the corridor, and into the Padre's room.
It was a position ludicrously undignified in itself, but
the General submitted to it good-naturedly.

" Oh, let them do it, if they like," he cried, laugh
ingly, to Padre Martinez, who was endeavoring to
quiet the Indians and hold them back; "Let them
do it. It pleases the poor creatures."

On the morning of their departure, the good Padre,
having exhausted all his resources for entertaining his
distinguished guests, caused to be driven past the cor
ridors, for their inspection, all the poultry belonging

28 RAMONA.

to the Mission. The procession took an hour to pass.
For music, there was the squeaking, cackling, hissing,
gobbling, crowing, quacking of the fowls, combined
with the screaming, scolding, and whip-cracking of the
excited Indian marshals of the lines. First came the
turkeys, then the roosters, then the white hens, then
the black, and then the yellow, next the ducks, and
at the tail of the spectacle long files of geese, some
strutting, some half flying and hissing in resentment
and terror at the unwonted coercions to which they
were subjected. The Indians had been hard at work
all night capturing, sorting, assorting, and guarding
the rank and file of their novel pageant. It would
be safe to say that a droller sight never was seen,
and never will be, on the Pacific coast or any other.
Before it was done with, the General and his bride
had nearly died with laughter; and the General could
never allude to it without laughing almost as heartily
again.

At Monterey they were more magnificently feted ;
at the Presidio, at the Mission, on board Spanish,
Mexican, and Eussian ships lying in harbor, balls,
dances, bull-fights, dinners, all that the country knew
of festivity, was lavished on the beautiful and win
ning young bride The belles of the coast, from San
Diego up, had all gathered at Monterey for these
gayeties ; but not one of them could be for a moment
compared to her. This was the beginning of the
Senora's life as a married woman. She was then
just twenty A close observer would have seen even
then, underneath the joyous smile, the laughing eye,
the merry voice, a look thoughtful, tender, earnest, at
times enthusiastic. This look was the reflection of
those qualities in her, then hardly aroused, which
made her, as years developed her character and
stormy fates thickened around her life, the unflinch
ing comrade of her soldier husband, the passionate

RAMONA. 29

adherent of the Church. Through wars, insurrec
tions, revolutions, downfalls, Spanish, Mexican, civil,
ecclesiastical, her standpoint, her poise, remained the(
same. She simply grew more and more proudly,
passionately, a Spaniard and a Moreno; more and
more stanchly and iierily a Catholic, and a lover of
the Franciscans.

During the height of the despoiling and plunder
ing of the Missions, under the Secularization Act, she
was for a few years almost beside herself. More
than once she journeyed alone, when the journey was
by no means without danger, to Monterey, to stir up
the Prefect of the Missions to more energetic action,
to implore the governmental authorities to interfere,
and protect the Church's property. It was largely in
consequence of her eloquent entreaties that Governor
Micheltorena issued his bootless order, restoring to
the Church all the Missions south of San Luis Obispo.
But this order cost Micheltorena his political head,
and General Moreno was severely wounded in one
of the skirmishes of the insurrection which drove
Micheltorena out of the country.

In silence and bitter humiliation the Sefiora nursed
her husband back to health again, and resolved to
meddle no more in the affairs of her unhappy country
and still more unhappy Church. As year by year
she saw the ruin of the Missions steadily going on,
their vast properties melting away, like dew before
the sun, in the hands of dishonest administrators
and politicians, the Church powerless to contend with
the unprincipled greed in high places, her beloved
Franciscan Fathers driven from the country or dying
of starvation at their posts, she submitted herself to
what, she was forced to admit, seemed to be the inscru
table will of God for the discipline and humiliation of
the Church. In a sort of bewildered resignation she
waited to see what farther sufferings were to come,

30 RAMUNA.

to fill up the measure of the punishment which, for
some mysterious purpose, the faithful must endure.
But when close upon all this discomfiture and hu
miliation of her Church followed the discomfiture and
humiliation of her country in war, and the near and
evident danger of an English-speaking people's possess
ing the land, all the smothered fire of the Seiiora's
nature broke out afresh. With unfaltering hands she
buckled on her husband's sword, and with dry eyes
saw him go forth to fight. She had but one regret,
that she was not the mother of sons to fight also.

" Would thou wert a man, Felipe," she exclaimed
again and again in tones the child never forgot.
" Would thou wert a man, that thou might go also to
fight these foreigners ! "

Any race under the sun would have been to the
Seiiora less hateful than the American. She had
scorned them in her girlhood, when they came trad
ing to post after post. She scorned them still. The
idea of being forced to wage a war with pedlers was
to her too monstrous to be believed. In the outset
she had no doubt that the Mexicans would win in the
contest.

" What ! " she cried, " shall we who won independ
ence from Spain, be beaten by these traders ? It is
impossible ! "

When her husband was brought home to her dead,
killed in the last fight the Mexican forces made, she
said icily, " He would have chosen to die rather than
to have been forced to see his country in the hands
of the enemy." And she was almost frightened at
herself to see how this thought, as it dwelt in her
mind, slew the grief in her heart. She had believed
she could not live if her husband were to be taken
away from her ; but she found herself often glad
that he was dead, — glad that he was spared the sight
and the knowledge of the things which happened;

RAMONA. 31

and even the yearning tenderness with which her
imagination pictured him among the saints, was often
turned into a fierce wondering whether indignation
did not fill his soul, even in heaven, at the way things
were going in the land for whose sake he had died.

Out of such throes as these had been born the
second nature which made Senora Moreno the silent,
reserved, stern, implacable woman they knew, who
knew her first when she was sixty. Of the gay,
tender, sentimental girl, who danced and laughed
with the officers, and prayed and confessed with the
Fathers, forty years before, there was small trace left
now, in the low-voiced, white-haired, aged woman,
silent, unsmiling, placid-faced, who manoeuvred with
her son and her head shepherd alike, to bring it about
that a handful of Indians might once more confess
their sins to a Franciscan monk in the Moreno
chapel.

111.

JUAN" CANITO and Seiior Felipe were not the
only members of the Sefiora's family who were
impatient for the sheep-shearing. There was also
Eamona. Eamona was, to the world at large, a far
more important person than the Senora herself. The
Senora was of the past ; Eamona was of the present.
For one eye that could see the significant, at times
solemn, beauty of the Senora's pale and shadowed
countenance, there were a hundred that ilasncd with
eager pleasure at the barest glimpse of Eamona's
face ; the shepherds, the herdsmen, the maids, the
babies, the dogs, the poultry, all loved the sight of
Eamona ; all loved her, except tho Senora. The
Seiiora loved her not ; never had loved her, never
could love her ; and yet she had stood in the place
of mother to the girl ever since her childhood, and
never once during the whole sixteen years of her
life had shown her any unkindness in act. She had
promised to be a mother to her ; and with all the
inalienable stanchness of her nature she fulfilled the
letter of her promise. More than the bond lay in
the bond ; but that was not the Senora's fault.

The story of Eamona the Senora never told. To
most of the Sefiora's acquaintances now, Eamona was
a mystery. They did not know — and no one ever
asked a prying question of the Senora Moreno — who
Eamona's parents were, whether they were living or
dead, or why Eamona, her name not being Moreno,
lived always in the Senora's house as a daughter,

RAMONA. 33

tended and attended equally with the adored Felipe.
A few gray-haired men and women here and there in
the country could have told the strange story of Ra-
mona ; but its beginning was more than a halt-cen
tury back, and much had happened since then. They
seldom thought of the child. They knew she was in
the Seiiora Moreno's keeping, and that was enough.
The affairs of the generation just going out were not
the business of the young people coming in. They
would have tragedies enough of their own presently ;
what was the use of passing down the old ones ?
Yet the story was not one to be forgotten ; and now
and then it was told in the twilight of a summer
evening, or in the shadows of vines on a lingering
afternoon, and all young men and maidens thrilled
who heard it.

It was an elder sister of the Senora's, — a sister
old enough to be wooed and won while the Senora
was yet at play, — who had been promised in marriage
to a young Scotchman named Angus Phail. She was
a beautiful woman ; and Angus Phail, from the day
that he first saw her standing in the Presidio gate,
became so madly her lover, that he was like a man
bereft of his senses. This was the only excuse ever
to be made for Kamona Gonzaga's deed. It could
never be denied, by her bitterest accusers, that, at the
first, and indeed for many months, she told Angus
she did not love him, and could not marry him ; and
that it was only after his stormy and ceaseless en
treaties, that she did finally promise to become his wife.
Then, almost immediately, she went away to Mon
terey, and Angus set sail for San Bias. He was the
owner of the richest line of ships which traded along
the coast at that time ; the richest stuffs, carvings,
woods, pearls, and jewels, which came into the country,
came in his ships. The arrival of one of them was
always an event ; and Angus himself, having been

34 RAMONA.

well-born in Scotland, and being wonderfully well-
mannered for a seafaring man, was made welcome
in all the best houses, wherever his ships went into
harbor, from Monterey to San Diego.

The Senorita Kamona Gonzaga sailed for Monterey
the same day and hour her lover sailed for San Bias.
They stood on the decks waving signals to each other
as one sailed away to the south, the other to the north.
It was remembered afterward by those who were in
the ship with the Senorita, that she ceased to wave
her signals, and had turned her face away, long be
fore her lover's ship was out of sight. But the men
of the " San Jose " said that Angus Phail stood im
movable, gazing northward, till nightfall shut from his
sight even the horizon line at which the Monterey
ship had long before disappeared from view.

This was to be his last voyage. He went on this
only because his honor was pledged to do so. Also,
lie comforted himself by thinking that he would bring
back for his bride, and for the home he meant to give
her, treasures of all sorts, which none could select so
well as he. Through the long weeks of the voyage
he sat on deck, gazing dreamily at the waves, and
letting his imagination feed on pictures of jewels,
satins, velvets, laces, which would best deck his wife's
form and face. When he could no longer bear the
vivid fancies' heat in his blood, he would pace the
deck, swifter and swifter, till his steps were like those
of one flying in fear ; at such times the men heard
him muttering and whispering to himself, " Kamona !
Kamona ! " Mad with love from the first to the last
was Angus Phail ; and there were many who believed
that if he had ever seen the hour when he called
Eamona Gonzaga his own, his reason would have fled
forever at that moment, and he would have killed
either her or himself, as men thus mad have been
known to do. But that hour never came. When,

RAMON A. 35

eight months later, the " San Jose " sailed into the
Santa Barbara harbor, and Angus Phail leaped breath
less on shore, the second man he met, no friend of
his, looking him maliciously in the face, said : " So,
ho ! You 're just too late for the wedding ! Your
sweetheart, the handsome Gonzaga girl, was married
here, yesterday, to a fine young officer of the Monterey
Presidio ! "

Angus reeled, struck the man a blow full in the
face, and fell on the ground, foaming at the mouth.
He was lifted and carried into a house, and, speedily
recovering, burst with the strength of a giant from
the hands of those who were holding him, sprang out
of the door, and ran bareheaded up the road toward
the Presidio. At the gate he was stopped by the
guard, who knew him.

" Is it true ? " gasped Angus.

" Yes, Senor," replied the man, who said afterward
that his knees shook under him with terror at the
look on the Scotchman's face. He feared he would
strike him dead for his reply. But, instead, Angus
burst into a maudlin laugh, and, turning away, went
staggering down the street, singing and laughing.

The next that was known of him was in a low
drinking-place, where he was seen lying on the floor,
dead drunk ; and from that day he sank lower and
lower, till one of the commonest sights to be seen in
Santa Barbara was Angus Phail reeling about, tipsy,
coarse, loud, profane, dangerous.

" See what the Senorita escaped ! " said the thought
less. " She was quite right not to have married such
a drunken wretch."

In the rare intervals when he was partially sober, he
sold all he possessed, — ship after ship sold for a song,
and the proceeds squandered in drinking or worse.
He never had a sight of his lost bride. He did not
seek it ; and she, terrified, took every precaution to

36 RAMON A.

avoid it, and soon returned with her husband to
Monterey.

Finally Angus disappeared, and after a time the
news came up from Los Angeles that he was there,
had gone out to the San Gabriel Mission, and was
living with the Indians. Some years later came the
still more surprising news that he had married a
squaw, — a squaw with several Indian children, —
had been legally married by the priest in the San
Gabriel Mission Church. And that was the last that
the faithless Kamona Gonzaga ever heard of her lover,
until twenty-five years after her marriage, when one
day he suddenly appeared in her presence. How
he had gained admittance to the house was never
known ; but there he stood before her, bearing in his
arms a beautiful babe, asleep. Drawing himself up
to the utmost of his six feet of height, and looking
at her sternly, with eyes blue like steel, he said :
"Seiiora Ortegna, you once did me a great wrong.
You sinned, and the Lord has punished you. He
has denied you children. I also have done a wrong ;
I have sinned, and the Lord has punished me. He
has given me a child. I ask once more at your
hands a boon. Will you take this child of mine,
and bring it up as a child of yours, or of mine, ought
to be brought up ? "

The tears were rolling down the Senora Ortegna's
cheeks. The Lord had indeed punished her in more
ways than Angus Phail knew. Her childlessness,
bitter as that had been, was the least of them.
Speechless, she rose, and stretched out her arms for
the child. He placed it in them. Still the child
slept on, undisturbed.

" I do not know if I will be permitted," she said
falteringly ; " my husband — "

" Father Salvierderra will command it. I have seen
him," replied Angus.

RAM ON A. 37

The Seiiora's face brightened. " If that be so, I
hope it can be as you wish," she said. Then a strange
embarrassment came upon her, and looking down
upon the infant, she said inquiringly, " But the
child's mother ? "

Angus's face turned swarthy red. Perhaps, face
to face with this gentle and still lovely woman ha
had once so loved, ha first realized to the full how
wickedly he had thrown away his life. With a quick
wave of his hand, which spoke volumes, he said:
" That is nothing. She has other children, of her
own blood. This is mine, my only one, my daughter.
I wish her to be yours ; otherwise, she will be taken
by the Church."

With each second that she felt the little warm
body's tender weight in her arms, Eamona Ortegna's
heart had more and more yearned towards the infant.
At these wrords she bent her face down and kissed
its cheek. " Oh no ! not to the Church ! I will love
it as my own," she said.

Angus Phail's face quivered. Feelings long dead
within him stirred in their graves. He gazed at the
sad and altered face, once so beautiful, so dear. " I
should hardly have known you, Senora ! " burst from
him involuntarily.

She smiled piteously, with no resentment. " That
is not strange. I hardly know myself," she whispered.
" Life has dealt very hardly with me. I should not
have known you either — Angus." She pronounced
his name hesitatingly, half appealingly. At the sound
of the familiar syllables, so long unheard, the man's
heart broke down. He buried his face in his hands,
and sobbed out : " 0 Kamona, forgive me ! I brought
the child here, not wholly in love ; partly in ven
geance. But I am melted now. Are you sure you
wish to keep her ? I will take her away if you are
not."

38 RAMONA.

" Never, so long as I live, Angus," replied Seftora
Ortegna. " Already I feel that she is a mercy from
the Lord. If my husband sees no offence in her
presence, she will be a joy in my life. Has she been
christened ? "

i Angus cast his eyes down. A sudden fear smote
him. " Before I had thought of bringing her to you,"
he stammered, " at first I had only the thought of
giving her to the Church. I had had her christened
by " — the words refused to leave his lips — " the
name — Can you not guess, Senora, what name she
bears ? "

The Senora knew. " My own ? " she said.

Angus bowed his head. " The only woman's
name that my lips ever spoke with love," he said,
reassured, " was the name my daughter should
bear."

"It is well," replied the Senora. Then a great
silence fell between them. Each studied the other's
face, tenderly, bewilderedly. Then by a simultaneous
impulse they drew nearer. Angus stretched out both
his arms with a gesture of infinite love and despair,
bent down and kissed the hands which lovingly held
his sleeping child.

" God bless you, Eamona ! Farewell ! You will
never see me more," he cried, and was gone.

In a moment more he reappeared on the threshold
of the door, but only to say in a low tone, " There is
no need to be alarmed if the child does not wake for
some hours yet. She has had a safe sleeping-potion
'given her. It will not harm her."
i One more long lingering look into each other's
faces, and the two lovers, so strangely parted, still
more strangely met, had parted again, forever. The
quarter of a century which had lain between them
had been bridged in both their hearts as if it were
but a day. In the heart of the man it was the old

RAM ON A. 39

passionate adoring love reawakening ; a resurrection
of the buried dead, to full life, with lineaments un
changed. In the woman it was not that ; there was
no buried love to come to such resurrection in her
heart, for she had never loved Angus Phail. But,
long unloved, ill-treated, heart-broken, she woke at
that moment to the realization of what manner of love
it had been which she had thrown away in her youth ;
her whole being yearned for it now, and Angus was
avenged.

When Francis Ortegna, late that night, reeled, half-
tipsy, into his wife's room, he was suddenly sobered
by the sight which met his eyes, — his wife kneeling
by the side of a cradle, in which lay, smiling in its
sleep, a beautiful infant.

" What in the devil's name," he began ; then recol
lecting, he muttered : " Oh, the Indian brat ! I see !
I wish you joy, Senora Ortegna, of your first child ! "
and with a mock bow, and cruel sneer, he staggered
by, giving the cradle an angry thrust with his foot
as he passed.

The brutal taunt did not much wound the Senora.
The time had long since passed when unkind words
from her husband could give her keen pain. But it
was a warning not lost upon her new-born mother
instinct, and from that day the little Ramona was
carefully kept and tended in apartments where there
was no danger of her being seen by the man to whom
the sight of her baby face was only a signal for anger
and indecency.

Hitherto Ramona Ortegna had, so far as was possible,
carefully concealed from her family the unhappiuess
of her married life. Ortegna's character was indeed
well known ; his neglect of his wife, his shameful
dissipations of all sorts, were notorious in every port
in the country. But from the wife herself no one
had even heard so much as a syllable of complaint.

40 RAM ON A.

She was a Gonzaga, and she knew how to suffer in
silence. But now she saw a reason for taking her
sister into her confidence. It was plain to her that
she had not many years to live ; and what then would
become of the child ? Left to the tender mercies of
Ortegna, it was only too certain what would become of
her. Long sad hours of perplexity the lonely woman
passed, with the little laughing babe in her arms,
vainly endeavoring to forecast her future. The near
chance of her own death had not occurred to her
mind when she accepted the trust.

Before the little Eamona was a year old, Angus
Phail died. An Indian messenger from San Gabriel
brought the news to Sefiora Ortegna. He brought
her also a box and a letter, given to him by Angus
the day before his death. The box contained jewels
of value, of fashions a quarter of a century old. They
were the jewels which Angus had bought for his
bride. These alone remained of all his fortune.
Even in the lowest depths of his degradation, a
certain sentiment had restrained him from parting
with them. The letter contained only these words :
"I send you all I have to leave my daughter. I
meant to bring them myself this year. I wished to
kiss your hands and hers once more. But I am
dying. Farewell."

After these jewels were in her possession, Senora
Ortegna rested not till she had persuaded Seiiora
Moreno to journey to Monterey, and had put the box
into her keeping as a sacred trust. She also won
from her a solemn promise that at her own death
she would adopt the little Eamona. This promise
came hard from Senora Moreno. Except for Father
Salvierderra's influence, she had not given it. She
did not wish any dealings with such alien and mon
grel blood. " If the child were pure Indian, I would
like it better," she said. " I like not these crosses.

RAM ON A. 41

It is the worst, and not the best of each, that
remains."

But the promise once given, Senora Ortegna was
content. Well she knew that her sister would not lie,
nor evade a trust. The little Ramona's future was
assured. During the last years of the unhappy wo
man's life the child was her only comfort. Ortegna's
conduct had become so openly and defiantly infamous,
that he even flaunted his illegitimate relations in his
wife's presence ; subjecting her to gross insults, spite
of her helpless invalidism. This last outrage was too
much for the Gonzaga blood to endure ; the Senora
never afterward left her apartment, or spoke to her
husband. Once more she sent for her sister to come ;
this time, to see her die. Every valuable she pos
sessed, jewels, laces, brocades, and damasks, she gave
into her sister's charge, to save them from falling into
the hands of the base creature that she knew only
too well would stand in her place as soon as the
funeral services had been said over her dead body.

Stealthily, as if she had been a thief, the sorrowing
Senora Moreno conveyed her sister's wardrobe, article
by article, out of the house, to be sent to her own
home. It was the wardrobe of a princess. The
Ortegnas lavished money always on the women whose
hearts they broke ; and never ceased to demand of
them that they should sit superbly arrayed in their
lonely wretchedness.

One hour after the funeral, with a scant and icy
ceremony of farewell to her dead sister's husband,
Senora Moreno, leading the little four-year-old
Eamona by the hand, left the house, and early the
next morning set sail for home.

When Ortegna discovered that his wife's jewels
and valuables of all kinds were gone, he fell into a
great rage, and sent a messenger off, post-haste, with
an insulting letter to the Seuora Moreno, demanding

42 RAMON A.

their return. For answer, he got a copy of his wife's
memoranda of instructions to her sister, giving all the
said valuables to her in trust for Rainoiia ; also a let
ter from Father Salvierderra, upon reading which he
sank into a fit of despondency that lasted a day or
two, and gave his infamous associates considerable
alarm, lest they had lost their comrade. But he soon
shook off the influence, whatever it was, and settled
back into his old gait on the same old high-road to
the devil. Father Salvierderra could alarm him, bub
not save him.

And this was the mystery of Eamona. No wonder
the Senora Moreno never told the story. No wonder,
perhaps, that she never loved the child. It was a
sad legacy, indissolubly linked with memories which
had in them nothing but bitterness, shame, and sor
row from first to last.

How much of all this the young Ramona knew or
suspected, was locked in her own breast. Her Indian
blood had as much proud reserve in it as was ever
infused into the haughtiest Gonzaga's veins. While
she was yet a little child, she had one day said to the
Seiiora Moreno, " Senora, why did my mother give
me to the Senora Ortegna ? "

Taken unawares, the Senora replied hastily : " Your
mother had nothing whatever to do with it. It was
your father."

" Was my mother dead ? " continued the child.

Too late the Senora saw her mistake. " I do not
know," she replied ; which was literally true, but
had the spirit of a lie in it. "I never saw your
mother."

" Did the Senora Ortegna ever see her ? " persisted
Ramona.

" No, never," answered the Senora, coldly, the old
wounds burning at the innocent child's unconscious
touch.

RAMONA. 43

Ramona felt the chill, and was silent for a time,
her face sad, and her eyes tearful. At last she said,
" I wish I knew if my mother was dead."

" Why ? " asked the Senora.

" Because if she is not dead I would ask her why
she did not want me to stay with her."

The gentle piteousness of this reply smote the
Senora's conscience. Taking the child in her arms,
she said, " Who has been talking to you of these
things, Ramona ? "

" Juan Can," she replied.

" What did he say ? " asked the Senora, with a look
in her eye which boded no good to Juan Canito.

" It was not to me he said it, it was to Luigo ; but
I heard him," answered Ramona, speaking slowly, as
if collecting her various reminiscences on the subject.
" Twice I heard him. He said that my mother was
no good, and that my father was bad too." And the
tears rolled down the child's cheeks.

The Senora's sense of justice stood her well in place
of tenderness, now. Caressing the little orphan as she
had never before done, she said, with an earnestness
which sank deep into the child's mind, " Ramona
must not believe any such thing as that. Juan Can
is a bad man to say it. He never saw either your
father or your mother, and so he could know nothing
about them. I knew your father very well. He
was not a bad man. He was my friend, and the
friend of the Senora Ortegna ; and that was the rea
son he gave you to the Senora Ortegna, because she
had no child of her own. And I think your mother
had a good many."

" Oh ! " said Ramona, relieved, for the moment, at
this new view of the situation, — that the gift had been
not as a charity to her, but to the Senora Ortegua.
" Did the Seuora Ortegua want a little daughter very
much ? "

44 RAMONA.

" Yes, very much indeed," said the Senora, heartily
and with fervor. " She had grieved many years be
cause she had no child."

Silence again for a brief space, during which the
little lonely heart, grappling with its vague instinct
of loss and wrong, made wide thrusts into the per
plexities hedging it about, and presently electrified
the Senora by saying in a half-whisper, " Why did riot
my father bring me to you first ? Did he know you
did not want any daughter ? "

The Senora was dumb for a second ; then recover
ing herself, she said : " Your father was the Senora
Ortegna's friend more than he was mine. I was only
a child, then."

" Of course you did not need any daughter when
you had Felipe," continued Ramona, pursuing her
original line of inquiry and reflection without no
ticing the Senora's reply. " A son is more than a
daughter; but most people have both," eying the
Seiiora keenly, to see what response this would
bring.

But the Senora was weary and uncomfortable with
the talk. At the very mention of Felipe, a swift flash
of consciousness of her inability to love Ramona had
swept through her mind. " Ramona," she said firmly,
" while you are a little girl, you cannot understand
any of these things. When you are a woman, I will
tell you all that I know myself about your father and
your mother. It is very little. Your father died
when you were only two years old. All that you
have to do is to be a good child, and say your prayers,
and when Father Salvierderra comes he will be
pleased with you. And he will not be pleased if you
ask troublesome questions. Don't ever speak to me
aeain about this. When the proper time comes I
will tell you myself."

This was when Ramona was ten. She was now

RAMONA. 15

nineteen. She had never again asked the Sefiora a
question bearing on the forbidden subject. She had
been a good child and said her prayers, and Father
Salvierderra had been always pleased with her, grow
ing more and more deeply attached to her year by
year. But the proper time had not yet come for the
Sefiora to tell her anything more about her father and
mother. There were few mornings on which the girl
did not think, " Perhaps it may be to-day that she
will tell me." But she would not ask. Every word
of that conversation was as vivid in her mind as it
had been the day it occurred ; and it would hardly be
an exaggeration to say that during every day of the
whole nine years had deepened in her heart the
conviction which had prompted the child's ques
tion, "Did he know that you did not want any
daughter ? "

A nature less gentle than Eamona's would have
been embittered, or at least hardened, by this con
sciousness. But Ramoua's was not. She never put
it in words to herself. She accepted it, as those born
deformed seem sometimes to accept the pain and
isolation caused by their deformity, with an unques
tioning acceptance, which is as far above resignation,
as resignation is above rebellious repining.

No one would have known, from Harnona's face,
manner, or habitual conduct, that she had ever experi
enced a sorrow or had a care. Her face was sunny,
she had a joyous voice, and never was seen to pass
a human being without a cheerful greeting, to high
est and lowest the same. Her industry was tireless.
iShe had had two years at school, in the Convent of
the Sacred Heart at Los Angeles, where the Sefiora
had placed her at much personal sacrifice, during one
of the hardest times the Moreno estate had ever seen.
Here she had won the affection of all the Sisters,
who spoke of her habitually as the " blessed child."

46 RAMONA.

They had taught her all the dainty arts of lace-weaving,
embroidery, and simple fashions of painting and draw
ing, which they knew ; not overmuch learning out of
books, but enough to make her a passionate lover of
verse and romance. For serious study or for deep
thought she had no vocation. She was a simple, joy
ous, gentle, clinging, faithful nature, like a clear brook
rippling along in the sun, — a nature as unlike as pos
sible to the Seiiora's, with its mysterious depths and
stormy, hidden currents.

Of these Ilamona was dimly conscious, and at times
had a tender, sorrowful pity for the Senora, which
she dared not show, and could only express by re
newed industry, and tireless endeavor to fulfil every
duty possible in the house. This gentle faithfulness
was not wholly lost on Senora Moreno, though, its
source she never suspected ; and it won no new recog
nition from her for llamona, no increase of love.

Bat there was one on whom not an act, not a look,
not a smile of all this graciousness was thrown away.
That one was Felipe. Daily more and more he won
dered at his mother's lack of affection of Eamona.
Nobody knew so well as he how far short she stopped
of loving her. Felipe knew what it meant, how it
felt, to be loved by the Senora Moreno. But Felipe
had learned while he was a boy that one sure way to
displease his mother was to appear to be aware that
she did not treat Eamona as she treated him. And
long before he had become a man he had acquired
the habit of keeping to himself most of the things he
thought and felt about his little playmate sister, —
a dangerous habit, out of which were slowly ripen
ing bitter fruits for the Seiiora's gathering in later
years.

IV.

IT was longer even than the Seiiora had thought
it would be, before Father Salvierderra arrived.
The old man had grown feeble during the year that
she had not seen him, and it was a very short day's
journey that he could make now without too great
fatigue. It was not only his body that had failed.
He had lost heart ; and the miles which would have
been nothing to him, had he walked in the compan
ionship of hopeful and happy thoughts, stretched out
wearily as he brooded over sad memories and still
sadder anticipations, — the downfall of the Missions,
the loss of their vast estates, and the growing power
of the ungodly in the land. The final decision of
the United States Government in regard to the Mis
sion-lands had been a terrible blow to him. He had
devoutly believed that ultimate restoration of these
great estates to the Church was inevitable. In the
long vigils which he always kept when at home at
the Franciscan Monastery in Santa Barbara, kneeling
on the stone pavement in the church, and praying
ceaselessly from midnight till dawn, he had often had
visions vouchsafed him of a new dispensation, in
which the Mission establishments should be rein
stated in all their old splendor and prosperity, and
their Indian converts again numbered by tens of
thousands.

Long after every one knew that this was impossi
ble, he would narrate these visions with the faith of
an old Bible seer, and declare that they must come

48 RAMONA.

true, and that it was a sin to despond. But as year
after year he journeyed up and down the country,
seeing, at Mission after Mission, the buildings crum
bling into ruin, the lands all taken, sold, resold, and
settled by greedy speculators ; the Indian converts dis
appearing, driven back to their original wildernesses,
the last traces of the noble work of his order being rap
idly swept away, his courage faltered, his faith died
out. Changes in the manners and customs of his or
der itself, also, were giving him deep pain. He was a
Franciscan of the same type as Francis of Assisi. To
wear a shoe in place of a sandal, to take money in a
purse for a journey, above all to lay aside the gray
gown and cowl for any sort of secular garment,
seemed to him wicked. To own comfortable clothes
while there were others suffering for want of them —
and there were always such — seemed to him a sin for
which one might not undeservedly be smitten with
sudden and terrible punishment. In vain the Broth
ers again and again supplied him with a warm cloak ;
he gave it away to the first beggar lie met : and as
for food, the refectory would have been left bare, and
the whole brotherhood starving, if the supplies had
not been carefully hidden and locked, so that Father
Salvierderra could not give them all away. He was
fast becoming that most tragic yet often sublime sight,
a man who has survived, riot only his own time, but
the ideas and ideals of it. Earth holds no sharper
loneliness : the bitterness of exile, the anguish of
friendlessness at their utmost, are in it ; and yet it is
so much greater than they, that even they seem small
part of it.

It was with thoughts such as these that Father
Salvierderra drew near the home of the Senora
Moreno late in the afternoon of one of those mid
summer days of which Southern California has so
many in spring. The almonds had bloomed and the

RAMONA. 49

blossoms fallen ; the apricots also, and the peaches
and pears ; on all the orchards of these fruits had
come a filmy tint of green, so light it was hardly
more than a shadow on the gray. The willows were
vivid light green, and the orange groves dark and
glossy like laurel. The billowy hills on either side
the valley were covered with verdure and bloom, —
myriads of low blossoming plants, so close to the
earth that their tints lapped and overlapped on each
other, and on the green of the grass, as feathers in
fine plumage overlap each other and blend into a
changeful color.

The countless curves, hollows, and crests of the
coast-hills in Southern California heighten these cha
meleon effects of the spring verdure ; they are like
nothing in nature except the glitter of a brilliant
lizard in the sun or the iridescent sheen of a pea
cock's neck.

Father Salvierderra paused many times to gaze at
the beautiful picture. Flowers were always dear to
the Franciscans. Saint Francis himself permitted all
decorations which could be made of flowers. He
classed them with his brothers and sisters, the sun,
moon, and stars, — all members of the sacred choir
praising God.

It was melancholy to see how, after each one of these
pauses, each fresh drinking in of the beauty of the
landscape and the balmy air, the old man resumed his
slow pace, with a long sigh and his eyes cast down.
The fairer this beautiful land, the sadder to know it lost
to the Church, — alien hands reaping its fulness, estab
lishing new customs, new laws. All the way down
the coast from Santa Barbara he had seen, at every
stopping-place, new tokens of the settling up of the
country, — farms opening, towns growing ; the Ameri
cans pouring in, at all points, to reap the advantages
of their new possessions. It was this which hud

50 RAMONA.

made bis journey heavy-hearted, and made him feel,
in approaching the Seiiora Moreno's, as if he were
coming to one of the last sure strongholds of the
Catholic faith left in the country.

When he was within two miles of the house, he
struck off from the highway into a narrow path that
he recollected led by a short-cut through the hills,
and saved nearly a third of the distance. It was
more than a year since he had trod this path, and as
he found it growing fainter and fainter, and more and
more overgrown with the wild mustard, he said to
himself, " I think no one can have passed through
here this year."

As be proceeded he found the mustard thicker and
thicker. The wild mustard in Southern California
is like that spoken of in the New Testament, in the
branches of which the birds of the air may rest.
Coming up out of the earth, so slender a stem that
dozens can find starting-point in an inch, it darts up,
a slender straight shoot, five, ten, twenty feet, with
hundreds of fine feathery branches locking and in
terlocking with all the other hundreds around it, till
it is an inextricable network like lace. Then it bursts
into yellow bloom still finer, more feathery and lace-
like. The stems are so infinitesimally small, and of
so dark a green, that at a short distance they do
not show, and the cloud of blossom seems float
ing in the air ; at times it looks like golden dust.
With a clear blue sky behind it, as it is often seen,
it looks like a golden snow-storm. The plant is a
tyrant and a nuisance, — the terror of the farmer; it
takes riotous possession of a whole field in a season;
once in, never out ; for one plant this year, a million
the next ; but it is impossible to wish that the land
were freed from it. Its gold is as distinct a value to
the eye as the nugget gold is in the pocket.

Father Salvierderra soon found himself in a verita-

RAMONA. 51

Me thicket of these delicate branches, high above his
head, and so interlaced that he could make headway
only by slowly and patiently disentangling them, as
one would disentangle a skein of silk. It was a fan
tastic sort of dilemma, and not unpleasing. Except
that the Father was in haste to reach his journey's
end, he would have enjoyed threading his \vay
through the golden meshes. Suddenly he heard faint
notes of singing. He paused, — listened. It was
the voice of a woman. It was slowly drawing nearer,
apparently from the direction in which he was going.
At intervals it ceased abruptly, then began again ;
as if by a sudden but brief interruption, like that
made by question and answer. Then, peering ahead
through the mustard blossoms, he saw them waving
and bending, and heard sounds as if they were being
broken. Evidently some one entering on the pat]:
from the opposite end had been caught in the fra
grant thicket as he was. The notes grew clearer,
though still low and sweet as the twilight notes of the
thrush ; the mustard branches waved more and more
violently ; light steps were now to be heard. Father
Salvierderra stood still as one in a dream, his eyes
straining forward into the golden mist of blossoms.
In a moment more came, distinct and clear to his
ear, the beautiful words of the second stanza of Saint
Francis's inimitable lyric, "The Canticle of the Sun:"

" Praise be to thee, O Lord , for all thy creatures, and espe
cially for our brother the Sun, — who illuminates the day, and
by his beauty and splendor shadows forth unto us thine."

1 " Eamona ! " exclaimed the Father, his thin cheeks
flushing with pleasure. " The blessed child ! " And
as he spoke, her face came into sight, set in a swaying
frame of the blossoms, as she parted them lightly to
right and left with her hands, and half crept, half danced
through the loop-hole openings thus made. Father

52 RAM ON A.

Salvierderra was past eighty, but his blood was not
too old to move quicker at the sight of this picture.
A man must be dead not to thrill at it. Ramona's
beauty was of the sort to be best enhanced by the
waving gold which now framed her face. She hadi
just enough of olive tint in her complexion to under
lie and enrich her skin without making it swarthy.
Her hair was like her Indian mother's, heavy and
black, but her eyes were like her father's, steel-blue.
Only those who came very near to Rarnona knew,
however, that her eyes were blue, for the heavy black
eyebrows and long black lashes so shaded and shad
owed them that they looked black as night. At the
same instant that Father Salvierderra first caught
sight of her face, Ramona also saw him, and cry
ing out joyfully, "Ah, Father, I knew you would
come by this path, and something told me you were
near ! " she sprang forward, and sank on her knees
before him, bowing her head for his blessing. In
silence he laid his hands on her brow. It would not
have been easy for him to speak to her at that first
moment. She had looked to the devout old rnonk,
as she sprang through the cloud of golden flowers, the
sun falling on her bared head, her cheeks flushed, her
eyes shining, more like an apparition of an angel or
saint, than like the flesh-and-blood maiden whom he
had carried in his arms when she was a babe.

" We have been waiting, waiting, oh, so long for
you, Father ! " she said, rising. " We began to fear that
you might be ill. The shearers have been sent for,
and will be here to-night, and that was the reason I
felt so sure you would come. I knew the Virgin
would bring you in time for mass in the chapel on the
first morning."

The monk smiled half sadly. " Would there were
more with such faith as yours, daughter," he said.
Are all well on the place ? "

RAMON A. 53

" Yes, Father, all well," she answered. " Felipe
has been ill with a fever ; but he is out now, these
ten days, and fretting for — for your coming."

llarnona had like to have said the literal truth, —
" fretting for the sheep-shearing," but recollected her
self in time.

" And the Senora ? " said the Father.

" She is well," answered Ramona, gently, but with
a slight change of tone, — so slight as to be almost
imperceptible ; but an acute observer would have
always detected it in the girl's tone whenever she
spoke of the Senora Moreno. " And you, — are you
well yourself, Father ? " she asked affectionately, not
ing with her quick, loving eye how feebly the old
man walked, and that he carried what she had never
before seen in his hand, — a stout staff to steady his
steps. " You must be very tired with the long jour
ney on foot."

" Ay, Eamona, I am tired," he replied. " Old age
is conquering me. It will not be many times more
that I shall see this place."

" Oh, do not say that, Father," cried Ramona ; " you
can ride, when it tires you too much to walk. The
Sefiora said, only the other day, that she wished you
would let her give you a horse ; that it was not right
for you to take these long journeys on foot. You
know we have hundreds of horses. It is nothing, one
horse," she added, seeing the Father slowly shake his
head.

" No ; " he said, " it is not that. I could not refuse
anything at the hands of the Senora. But it was the
rule of our order to go on foot. We must deny the
flesh. Look at our beloved master in this land,
Father Junipero, when he was past eighty, walking
from San Diego to Monterey, and all the while a run
ning ulcer in one of his legs, for which most men
would have taken to a bed, to be healed. It is a sin-

54 RAMON A.

ful fashion that is coming in, for monks to take their
ease doing God's work. I can no longer walk swiftly,
but I must walk all the more diligently."

While they were talking, they had been slowly
moving forward, Eamona slightly in advance, grace
fully bending the mustard branches, and holding
them down till the Father had followed in her steps.
As they came out from the thicket, she exclaimed,
laughing, "There is Felipe, in the willows. I told
him I was coming to meet you, and he laughed at me.
Now he will see I was right."

Astonished enough, Felipe, hearing voices, looked
up, and saw Itamona and the Father approaching.
Throwing down the knife with which he had been
cutting the willows, he hastened to meet them, and
dropped on his knees, as liamona had done, for the
monk's blessing. As he knelt there, the wind blowing
his hair loosely off his brow, his large brown eyes lifted
in gentle reverence to the Father's face, and his face full
of affectionate welcome, Ramona thought to herself, as
she had thought hundreds of times since she became a
woman, " How beautiful Felipe is ! No wonder the
Seiiora loves him so much ! If I had been beautiful
like that she would have liked me better." Never
was a little child more unconscious of her own beauty
than Eamona still was. All the admiration which
was expressed to her in word and look she took for
simple kindness and good-will. Her face, as she
herself saw it in her glass, did not please her. She
compared her straight, massive black eyebrows with
'Felipe's, arched and delicately pencilled, and found her
own ugly. The expression of gentle repose which her
countenance wore, seemed to her an expression of stu
pidity. " Felipe looks so bright ! " she thought, as she
noted his mobile changing face, never for two succes
sive seconds the same. " There is nobody like Felipe."
And when his brown eyes were fixed on her, as they

RAMONA. 55

so often were, in a long lingering gaze, she looked stead
ily back into their velvet depths with an abstracted
sort of intensity which profoundly puzzled Felipe. It
was this look, more than any other one thing, which
had for two years held Felipe's tongue in leash, as it
were, and made it impossible for him to say to Ea-
mona any of the loving things of which his heart had
been full ever since he could remember. The boy
had spoken them unhesitatingly, unconsciously ; but
the man found himself suddenly afraid. " What is it
she thinks when she looks into my eyes so ? " he won
dered. If he had known that the thing she was usu
ally thinking was simply, " How much handsomer
brown eyes are than blue ! I wish my eyes were the
color of Felipe's ! " he would have perceived, perhaps,
what would have saved him sorrow, if he had known
it, that a girl who looked at a man thus, would be
hard to win to look at him as a lover. But being a
lover, he could not see this. He saw only enough to
perplex and deter him.

As they drew near the house, Eamona saw Marga
rita standing at the gate of the garden. She was
holding something white in her hands, looking down
at it, and crying piteously. As she perceived Eamona,
she made an eager leap forward, and then shrank
back again, making dumb signals of distress to her.
Her whole attitude was one of misery and entreaty.
Margarita was, of all the maids, most beloved by
Eamona. Though they were nearly of the same age,
it had been Margarita who first had charge of Eamona ;
the nurse and her charge had played together, grown
up together, become women together, and were now,
although Margarita never presumed on the relation,
or forgot to address Eamona as Sefiorita, more like
friends than like mistress and maid.

"Pardon me, Father," said Eamona. "I see that
Margarita there is in trouble. I will leave Felipe to

56 RAM ON A.

go with you to the house. I will he with you again
in a few moments." And kissing his hand, she flew
rather than ran across the field to the foot of the gar
den.

Before she reached the spot, Margarita had dropped
on the ground and buried her face in her hands.
A mass of crumpled and stained linen lay at her
feet.

" What is it ? What has happened, Margarita mia ?"
cried Kamona, in the affectionate Spanish phrase. For
answer, Margarita removed one wet hand from her
eyes, and pointed with a gesture of despair to the
crumpled linen. Sobs choked her voice, and she
buried her face again in her hands.

Ramona stooped, and lifted one corner of the linen.
An involuntary cry of dismay broke from her, at
which Margarita's sobs redoubled, and she gasped out,
"Yes, Senorita, it is totally ruined! It can never
be mended, and it will be needed for the mass to
morrow morning. When I saw the Father coming
by your side, I prayed to the Virgin to let me die.
The Sefiora will never forgive me."

It was indeed a sorry sight. The white linen
altar-cloth, the cloth which the Senora Moreno had
with her own hands made into one solid front of
beautiful lace of the Mexican fashion, by drawing
out part of the threads and sewing the remainder
into intricate patterns, the cloth which had always
been on the altar, when mass was said, since Mar
garita's and Ramona's earliest recollections, — there
it lay, torn, stained, as if it had been dragged through
muddy brambles. In silence, aghast, Ramona opened
it out and held it up. " How did it happen, Mar
garita ? " she whispered, glancing in terror up towards
the house.

" Oh, that is the worst of it, Senorita ! " sobbed the
girl. " That is the worst of it ! If it were not for.

RAMON A. 57

that, I would not be so afraid. If it had happened
any other way, the Sefiora might have forgiven me ;
but she never will. I would rather die than tell
her ; " and she shook from head to foot.

"Stop crying, Margarita!" said Kamona, firmly,
" and tell me all about it. It is n't so bad as it looks ;
I think I can mend it."

"Oh, the saints bless you !" cried Margarita, look
ing up for the first time. " Do you really think you
can mend it, Sefiorita ? If you will mend that lace,
I '11 go on my knees for you all the rest of my life ! "

Kamona laughed in spite of herself. "You'll serve
me better by keeping on your feet," she said merrily ;
at which Margarita laughed too, through her tears.
They were both young.

" Oh, but Sefiorita," Margarita began again in a
tone of anguish, her tears flowing afresh, " there is
not time ! It must be washed and ironed to-night,
for the mass to-morrow morning, and I have to help
at the supper. Anita and Eosa are both ill in bed, you
know, and Maria has gone away for a week. The
Sefiora said if the Father came to-night I must help
mother, and must wait on table. It cannot be
done. I was just going to iron it now, and I found
it — so — It was in the artichoke-patch, and Capi-
tan, the beast, had been tossing it among the sharp
pricks of the old last year's seeds."

" In the artichoke-patch ! " ejaculated Ramona.
" How under heavens did it get there ? "

"Oh, that was what I meant, Sefiorita, when
I said she never would forgive me. She has forbid
den me many times to hang anything to dry on the
fence there ; and if I had only washed it when she
first told me, two days ago, all would have been well.
But I forgot it till this afternoon, and there was
no sun in the court to dry it, and you know how
the sun lies on the artichoke-patch, and I put a

58 RAM ON A.

strong cloth over the fence, so that the wood should
not pierce the lace, and I did not leave it more
than half an hour, just while I said a few words
'to Luisro, and there was no wind ; and I believe the

O > '

saints must have fetched it down to the ground to
punish me for my disobedience."

Ramona had been all this time carefully smooth-
ing out the torn places. " It is not so bad as it
looks," she said ; " if it were not for the hurry, there
': would be no trouble in mending it. But I will do it
the best I can, so that it will not show, for to-morrow,
and then, after the Father is gone, I can repair it at
leisure, and make it just as good as new. I think
I can mend it and wash it before dark," and she
glanced at the sun. " Oh, yes, there are good three
hours; of daylight yet. I can do it. You put irons
on the fire, to have them hot, to iron it as soon as
it is partly dried. You will see it will not show
that anything has happened to it."

"Will the Senora know?" asked poor Margarita,
calmed and reassured, but still in mortal terror.

Ramona turned her steady glance full on Marga
rita's face. " You would not be any happier if she
were deceived, do you think ? " she said gravely.

" 0 Senorita, after it is mended ? If it really does
not show ? " pleaded the girl.

" I will tell her myself, and not till after it is
mended," said Ramona ; but she did not smile.

" Ah, Senorita," said Margarita, deprecatingly, " you
do not know what it is to have the Senora displeased
with one."

" Nothing can be so bad as to be displeased with
one's self," retorted Ramona, as she walked swiftly
away to her room with the linen rolled up under
her arm. Luckily for Margarita's cause, she met no
one on the way. The Senora had welcomed Father
Salvierderra at the foot of the veranda steps, and

RAMONA. 59

had immediately closeted herself with him. She had
much to say to him, — much about which she wished
his help aud counsel, and much which she wished to
learn from him as to affairs in the Church and in the
country generally.

Felipe had gone off at once to find Juan Canito,
to see if everything were ready for the sheep-shearing
to begin on the next day, if the shearers arrived in
time ; and there was very good chance of their com
ing in by sundown this day, Felipe thought, for he
had privately instructed his messenger to make all
possible haste, and to impress on the Indians the
urgent need of their losing no time on the road.

It had been a great concession on the Senora's part
to allow the messenger to be sent off before she had
positive intelligence as to the Father's movements.
13ut as day after day passed and no news came, even
she perceived that it would not do to put off the sheep-
shearing much longer, or, as Juan Canito said, " for
ever." The Father might have fallen ill ; and if that
were so, it might very easily be weeks before they
heard of it, so scanty were the means of communica
tion between the remote places on his route of visi
tation. The messenger had therefore been sent to
summon the Temecula shearers, and the Senora had
resigned herself to the inevitable ; piously praying,
however, morning and night, and at odd moments
in the day, that the Father might arrive before the
Indians did. When she saw him coming up the garden-
walk, leaning on the arm of her Felipe, on the after
noon of the very day which was the earliest possible
day for the Indians to arrive, it was not strange that
she felt, mingled with the joy of her greeting to her
long-loved friend and confessor, a triumphant exul
tation that the saints had heard her prayers.

In the kitchen all was bustle and stir. The com
ing of any guest into the house was a signal for

GO RAMONA.

unwonted activities there, — even the coming of Father
Salvierderra, .who never knew whether the soup had
forcemeat balls in it or not, old Marda said ; and
that was to her the last extreme of indifference to
good things of the flesh. " But if he will not eat, lie
can see," she said ; and her pride for herself and for the
house was enlisted in setting forth as goodly an array
of viands as her larder afforded. She grew suddenly
fastidious over the size and color of the cabbages to go
into the beef-pot, and threw away one whole saucepan
full of rice, because Margarita had put only one onion
in instead of two.

" Have I not told you again and again that for the
Father it is always two onions ? " she exclaimed. " It
is the dish he most favors of all ; and it is a pity
too, old as he is. It makes him no blood. It is good
beef he should take now."

The dining-room was on the opposite side of the
court-yard from the kitchen, and there was a perpet
ual procession of small messengers going back and
forth between the rooms. It was the highest ambition
of each child to be allowed to fetch and carry dishes
in the preparation of the meals at all times ; but
when by so doing they could perchance get a glimpse
through the dining-room door, open on the veranda,
of strangers and guests, their restless rivalry became
unmanageable. Poor Margarita, between her own
private anxieties and her multiplied duties of helping
in the kitchen, and setting the table, restraining and
overseeing her army of infant volunteers, was nearly
distraught ; not so distraught, however, but that she
remembered and found time to seize a lighted candle
in the kitchen, run and set it before the statue of
Saint Francis of Paula in her bedroom, hurriedly
whispering a prayer that the lace might be made
whole like new. Several times before the afternoon
had waned she snatched a moment to fling herself

RAMON A. Gl

down at the statue's feet and pray her foolish little
prayer over again. We think we are quite sure that
it is a foolish little prayer, when people pray to have
torn lace made whole. But it would be hard to show
the odds between asking that, and asking that it may
rain, or that the sick may get well. As the grand old
Russian says, what men usually ask for, when they
pray to God, is, that two and two may not make four.
All the same he is to be pitied who prays not. It was
only the thought of that candle at Saint Francis's feet,
which enabled Margarita to struggle through this
anxious and unhappy afternoon and evening.

At last supper was ready, — a great dish of spiced
beef and cabbage in the centre of the table ; a tureen
of thick soup, with forcemeat balls and red peppers
in it ; two red earthen platters heaped, one with
the boiled rice and onions, the other with the deli
cious frijoles (beans) so dear to all Mexican hearts ;
cut-glass dishes filled with hot stewed pears, or pre
served quinces, or grape jelly ; plates of frosted cakes
of various sorts ; and a steaming silver teakettle, from
which went up an aroma of tea such as had never
been bought or sold in all California, the Senora's
one extravagance and passion.

" Where is Ramoua ? " asked the Seiiora, surprised
and displeased, as she entered the dining-room.
" Margarita, go tell the Senorita that we are waiting
for her."

Margarita started tremblingly, with flushed face, to
wards the door. What would happen now ! " 0 Saint
Francis," she inwardly prayed, " help us this once ! "

" Stay," said Felipe. " Do not call Senorita Kainona."
Then, turning to his mother, " Eamona cannot come.
She is not in the house. She has a duty to perform
for to-morrow," he said ; and he looked meaningly at
his mother, adding, " we will not wait for her."

Much bewildered, the Seiiora took her seat at the

62 RAMON A.

head of the table in a mechanical way, and began,
" But — " Felipe, seeing that questions were to fol
low, interrupted her : "I have just spoken with her.
It is impossible for her to come ; " and turning to
Father Salvierderra, he at once engaged him in con
versation, and left the baffled Senora to bear her un
satisfied curiosity as best she could.

Margarita looked at Felipe with an expression of
profound gratitude, which he did not observe, and
would not in the least have understood ; for Ilamona
had not confided to him any details of the disaster.
Seeing him under her window, she had called
cautiously to him, and said : " Dear Felipe, do you
think you can save me from having to come to
supper ? A dreadful accident has happened to the
altar-cloth, and I must mend it and wash it, and
there is barely time before dark. Don't let them call
me ; I shall be down at the brook, and they will not
find me, and your mother will be displeased."

This wise precaution of liamona's was the salva
tion of everything, so far as the altar-cloth was con
cerned. The rents had proved far less serious than
she had feared ; the daylight held out till the last of
them wras skilfully mended ; and just as the red
beams of the sinking sun carne streaming through
the willow-trees at the foot of the garden, Ramona,
darting down the garden, had reached the brook, and
kneeling on the grass, had dipped the linen into the
water.

Her hurried working over the lace, and her anxiety,
had made her cheeks scarlet. As she ran down the
garden, her comb had loosened and her hair fallen to
her waist. Stopping only to pick up the comb and
thrust it in her pocket, she had sped on, as it would
soon be too dark for her to see the stains on the
linen, and it was going to be no small trouble to get
them out without fraying the lace.

RAMONA. 63

Her hair in disorder, her sleeves pinned loosely on
her shoulders, her whole face aglow with the earnest
ness of her task, she bent low over the stones, rinsing
the altar-cloth up and down in the water, anxiously*
scanning it, then plunging it in again.

The sunset beams played around her hair like a
halo ; the whole place was aglow with red light, and
her face was kindled into transcendent beauty. A
sound arrested her attention. She looked up. Forms,
dusky black against the fiery western sky, were
coming down the valley. It was the band of Indian
shearers. They turned to the left, and went towards
the sheep sheds and booths. But there was one of them
that Eamona did not see. He had been standing for
some minutes concealed behind a large willow-tree
a few rods from the place where Ramona was kneel
ing. It was Alessandro, son of Pablo Assis, captain
of the shearing band. Walking slowly along in ad
vance of his men, he had felt a light, as from a mirror
held in the sun, smite his eyes. It was the red sun
beam on the glittering water where Ramona knelt.
In .the same second he saw Eamona.

He halted, as wild creatures of the forest halt at
a sound ; gazed ; walked abruptly away from his men,
who kept on, not noticing his disappearance. Cau
tiously he moved a few steps nearer, into the shelter
of a gnarled old willow, from behind which he could
gaze unperceived on the beautiful vision, — for so it
seemed to him.

As he gazed, his senses seemed leaving him, and
unconsciously he spoke aloud : " Christ ! What shall
I do!"

V.

THE room in which Father Salvierderra always
slept when at the Sefiora Moreno's house was
the southeast corner room. It had a window to the
south and one to the east. When the first glow of
dawn came in the sky, this eastern window was lit
up as by a fire. The Father was always on watch
for it, having usually been at prayer for hours. As
the first ray reached the window, he would throw the
casement wide open, and standing there with bared
head, strike up the melody of the sunrise hymn sung
in all devout Mexican families. It was a beautiful
custom, not yet wholly abandoned. At the first dawn
of light, the oldest member of the family arose, and
began singing some hymn familiar to the household.
It was the duty of each person hearing it to imme
diately rise, or at least sit up in bed, and join in the
singing. In a few moments the whole family would
be singing, and the joyous sounds pouring out from
the house like the music of the birds in the fields at
dawn. The hymns were usually invocations to the
Virgin, or to the saint of the day, and the melodies
were sweet and simple.

On this morning there was another watcher for
the dawn besides Father Salvierderra. It was Ales-
saudro, who had been restlessly wandering about
since midnight, and had finally seated himself under
the willow-trees by the brook, at the spot where lie
had seen Ramona the evening before. He recollected
this custom of the sunrise liymu when he and his

RAMONA. G5

band were at the Sefiora's the last year, and he had
chanced then to learn that the .Father slept in the
southeast room. From the spot where he sat, he
could see the south window of this room. He could
also see the low eastern horizon, at which a faint
luminous line already showed. The sky was like
amber ; a few stars still shone faintly in the zenith.
There was not a sound. It was one of those rare
moments in which one can without difficulty realize
the noiseless spinning of the earth through space.
Alessandro knew nothing of this ; he could not have
been made to believe that the earth was moving. He
thought the sun was coming up apace, and the earth
was standing still, — a belief just as grand, just as
thrilling, so far as all that goes, as the other : men
worshipped the sun long before they found out that
it stood still. Not the most reverent astronomer,
with the mathematics of the heavens at his tongue's
end, could have had more delight in the wondrous
phenomenon of the dawn, than did this simple-minded,
unlearned man.

His eyes wandered from the horizon line of slowly
increasing light, to the windows of the house, yet
dark and still. " Which window is hers ? Will she
open it when the song begins ? " he thought. " Is it
on this side of the house ? Who can she be ? She
was not here last year. Saw the saints ever so beau
tiful a creature ! "

At last came the full red ray across the meadow.
Alessandro sprang to his feet. In the next second
Father Salvierderra flung up his south window, and
jleaning out, his cowl thrown off, his thin gray locks
' streaming back, began in a feeble but not unmelodious
voice to sing, —

" O beautiful Queen,
Princess of Heaven."

66 RAMON A.

Before he had finished the second line, a half-dozen
voices had joined in, — the Senora, from her room at
the west end of the veranda, beyond the flowers ;
Felipe, from the adjoining room ; llamona, from hers,
the next ; and Margarita and other of the maids
already astir in the wings of the house.

As the volume of melody swelled, the canaries
waked, and the finches and the linnets in the veranda
roof. The tiles of this roof were laid on bundles of
tule reeds, in which the linnets delighted to build
their nests. The roof was alive with them, — scores
and scores, nay hundreds, tame as chickens ; their
tiny shrill twitter was like the tuning of myriads of
violins.

" Singers at dawn

From the heavens above

People all regions ;

Gladly we too sing,"

continued the hymn, the birds corroborating the
stanza. Then men's voices joined in, — Juan and
Luigo, and a dozen more, walking slowly up from the
sheepfolds. The hymn was a favorite one, known to
all.

" Come, O sinners,

Come, and we will sing

Tender hymns

To our refuge,"

was the chorus, repeated after each of the five verses
of the hymn.

Alessandro also knew the hymn well. His father,
Chief Pablo, had been the leader of the choir at the
San Luis Key Mission in the last years of its splen
dor, and had brought away with him much of the old
choir music. Some of the books had been written
by his own hand, on parchment. He not only sang
well, but was a good player on the violin. There
was not at any of the Missions so fine a band of per-

RAMONA. 67

formers on stringed instruments as at San Luis Eey.
Father Peyri was passionately fond of music, and
spared no pains in training all of the neophytes under
his charge who showed any special talent in that
direction. Chief Pablo, after the breaking up of the
Mission, had settled at Temecula, with a small band
of his Indians, and endeavored, so far as was in his
power, to keep up the old religious services. The
music in the little chapel of the Temecula Indians
was a surprise to all who heard it.

Alessandro had inherited his father's love and
talent for music, and knew all the old Mission music
by heart. This hymn to the

" Beautiful Queen,
Princess of Heaven,"

was one of his special favorites ; and as he heard
verse after verse rising, he could not forbear strik
ing in.

At the first notes of this rich new voice, Eamona's
voice ceased in surprise ; and, throwing up her win
dow, she leaned out, eagerly looking in all directions
to see who it could be. Alessandro saw her, and
sang no more.

" What could it have been ? Did I dream it ? "
thought Eamona, drew in her head, and began to
sing again.

With the next stanza of the chorus, the same rich
barytone notes. They seemed to float in under all
the rest, and bear them along, as a great wave
bears a boat. Eamona had never heard such a voice.
Felipe had a good tenor, and she liked to sing with
him, or to hear him ; but this — this was from an
other world, this sound. Eamona felt every note of
it penetrating her consciousness with a subtle thrill
almost like pain. When the hymn ended, she lis
tened eagerly, hoping Father Salvierderra would strike

68 RAMONA.

up a second hymn, as he often did ; but he did not
this morning ; there was too much to be done ; every
body was in a hurry to be at work : windows shut,
doors opened ; the sounds of voices from all directions^
ordering, questioning, answering, began to be heard.
The sun rose and let a flood of work-a-day light on
the whole place. ,

Margarita ran and unlocked the chapel door, put
ting up a heartfelt thanksgiving to Saint Francis and
the Senorita, as she saw the snowy altar-cloth in its
place, looking, from that distance at least, as good as
new.

The Indians and the shepherds, and laborers of all
sorts, were coming towards the chapel. The Senora,
with her best black silk handkerchief bound tight
around her forehead, the ends hanging down each
side of her face, making her look like an Assyrian
priestess, was descending the veranda steps, Felipe
at her side; and Father Salvierderra had already
entered the chapel before Eamona appeared, or Ales-
sandro stirred from his vantage-post of observation
at the willows.

When Eamona came out from the door she bore in
her hands a high silver urn filled with ferns. She had
been for many days gathering and hoarding these.
They were hard to find, growing only in one place in a
rocky canon, several miles away.

As she stepped from the veranda to the ground,
Alessandro walked slowly up the garden-walk, facing
her. She met his eyes, and, without knowing why,
thought, "That must be the Indian who sang." As
she turned to the right and entered the chapel, Ales
sandro followed her hurriedly, and knelt on the stones
close to the chapel door. He would be near when
she came out. As he looked in at the door, he saw
her glide up the aisle, place the ferns on the reading-
desk, and then kneel down by Felipe in front of

RAM ON A. 69

the altar. Felipe turned towards her, smiling slightly,
with a look as of secret intelligence.

" Ah, Senor Felipe has married. She is his wife,"
thought Alessandro, and a strange pain seized him.
He did not analyze it ; hardly knew what it meant.
He was only twenty-one. He had not thought much1
about women. He was a distant, cold boy, his own
people of the Temecula village said. It had come,
they believed, of learning to read, which was always
bad. Chief Pablo had not done his son any good by
trying to make him like white men. If the Fathers
could have stayed, and the life at the Mission have
gone on, why, Alessandro could have had work to do for
the Fathers, as his father had before him. Pablo had
been Father Peyri's right-hand man at the Mission ;
had kept all the accounts about the cattle ; paid the
wages ; handled thousands of dollars of gold every
month. But that was " in the time of the king ; " it
was very different now. The Americans would not
let an Indian do anything but plough and sow and
herd cattle. A man need not read and write, to do
that.

Even Pablo sometimes doubted whether he had
done wisely in teaching Alessandro all he knew him
self. Pablo was, for one of his race, wise and far-
seeing. He perceived the danger threatening his
people on all sides. Father Peyri, before he left
the country, had said to him : " Pablo, your people
will be driven like sheep to the slaughter, unless
you keep them together. Knit firm bonds between
them ; band them into pueblos ; make them work ;
and above all, keep peace with the whites. It is
your only chance."

Most strenuously Pablo had striven to obey Father
Peyri's directions. He had set his people the ex
ample of constant industry, working steadily in his
fields and caring well for his herds. He had built

70 RAMONA.

a chapel in his little village, and kept tip forms
of religious service there. Whenever there were
troubles with the whites, or rumors of them, he went
from house to house, urging, persuading, command
ing his people to keep the peace. At one time when
there was an insurrection of some of the Indian
tribes farther south, and for a few days it looked as
if there would be a general Indian war, he removed
the greater part of his band, men, women, and chil
dren driving their flocks and herds with them, to
Los Angeles, and camped there for several days, that
they might be identified with the whites in case
hostilities became serious.

But his labors did not receive the reward that
they deserved. With every day that the intercourse
between his people and the whites increased, he
saw the whites gaining, his people surely losing
ground, and his anxieties deepened. The Mexican
owner of the Temecula valley, a friend of Father
Peyri's, and a good friend also of Pablo's, had re
turned to Mexico in disgust with the state of affairs
in California, and was reported to be lying at the
point of death. This man's promise to Pablo, that
lie and his people should always live in the valley
undisturbed, was all the title Pablo had to the vil
lage lands. In the days when the promise was
given, it was all that was necessary. The lines
marking off the Indians' lands were surveyed, and
put on the map of the estate. No Mexican pro
prietor ever broke faith with an Indian family or
village thus placed on his lands.

But Pablo had heard rumors, which greatly dis
quieted him, that such pledges and surveyed lines as
these were coming to be held as of no value, not
binding on purchasers of grants. He was intelligent
enough to see that if this were so, lie and his peo
ple were ruined. All these perplexities and fears he

RAMON A. 71

confided to Alessandro; long anxious hours the father
and son spent together, walking back and forth in
the village, or sitting in front of their little adobe
house, discussing what could be done. There was
always the same ending to the discussion, — a long
sigh, and, " We must wait, we can do nothing."

No wonder Alessandro seemed, to the more igno
rant and thoughtless young men and women of his
village, a cold and distant lad. He was made old be
fore his time. He was carrying in his heart bur
dens of which they knew nothing. So long as the
wheat-fields came up well, and there was no drought,
and the horses and sheep had good pasture, in
plenty, on the hills, the Temecula people could be
merry, go day by day to their easy work, play
games at sunset, and sleep sound all night. But
Alessandro and his father looked beyond. And this
was the one great reason why Alessandro had not
yet thought about women, in way of love ; this, and
also the fact that even the little education he had
received was sufficient to raise a slight barrier, of
which he was unconsciously aware, between him and
the maidens of the village. If a quick, warm fancy
for any one of them ever stirred in his veins, he
found himself soon, \\Q knew not how, cured of it.
For a dance, or a game, or a friendly chat, for the
trips into the mountains after acorns, or to the
marshes for grasses and reeds, he was their good
comrade, and they were his ; but never had the
desire to take one of them for his wife, entered into
Alessandro's mind. The vista of the future, for him,
was filled full by thoughts which left no room for
love's dreaming ; one purpose and one fear filled
it, — the purpose to be his father's worthy succes
sor, for Pablo was old now, and very feeble ; the fear,
that exile and ruin were in store for them all.

It was of these things he had been thinking as he

72 RAMONA.

walked alone, in advance of his men, on the previous
night, when he first saw Eamona kneeling at the
brook. Between that moment and the present, it
seemed to Alessandro that some strange miracle
must have happened to him. The purposes and the
fears had alike gone. A face replaced them; a vague
wonder, pain, joy, he knew not what, filled him so to
overflowing that he was bewildered. If he had been
what the world calls a civilized man, he would have
known instantly, and would have been capable of
weighing, analyzing, and reflecting on his sensations
at leisure. But he was not a civilized man; he had
to bring to bear on his present situation only simple,
primitive, uneducated instincts and impulses. If
Eamona had been a maiden of his own people or
race, he would have drawn near to her as quickly as
iron to the magnet. But now, if he had gone so far
as to even think of her in such a way, she would
have been, to his view, as far removed from him as
was the morning star beneath whose radiance he had
that morning watched, hoping for sight of her at her
window. He did not, however, go so far as to thus
think of her. Even that would have been impossi
ble. He only knelt on the stones outside the chapel
door, mechanically repeating. the prayers with the
rest, waiting for her to reappear. He had no doubt,
now, that she was Senor Felipe's wife ; all the same
he wished to kneel there till she came out, that he
might see her face again. His vista of purpose, fear,
hope, had narrowed now down to that, — just one
more sight of her. Ever so civilized, he could hardly
have worshipped a woman better. The mass seemed
to him endlessly long. Until near the last, he forgot
to sing ; then, in the closing of the final hymn,
he suddenly remembered, and the clear deep-toned
voice pealed out, as before, like the undertone of a
great sea-wave, sweeping along.

RAMON A. 73

Ramona heard the first note, and felt again the
same thrill. She was as much a musician born as
Alessandro himself. As 'she rose from her knees,
she whispered to Felipe : " Felipe, do find out which
one of the Indians it is has that superb voice. I
never heard anything like it."

" Oh, that is Alessandro," replied Felipe, " old
Pablo's son. He is a splendid fellow. Don't you
recollect his singing two years ago ? "

" I was not here," replied Kamona ; " you for-
get."

" Ah, yes, so you were away ; I had forgotten,"
said Felipe. " Well, he was here. They made him
captain of the shearing-band, though he was only
twenty, and he managed the men splendidly. They
saved nearly all their money to carry home, and I
never knew them do such a thing before. Father
Salvierderra was here, which might have had some
thing to do with it ; but I think it was quite as
much Alessandro. He plays the violin beautifully.
I hope he has brought it along. He plays the old
San Luis Key music. His father was band-master
there."

feamona's eyes kindled with pleasure. " Does your
mother like it, to have him play ? " she asked.

Felipe nodded. " We '11 have him up on the veranda
to-night," he said.

While this whispered colloquy was going on, the
chapel had emptied, the Indians and Mexicans all
hurrying out to set about the day's work. Alessan
dro lingered at the doorway as long as he dared, till
he was sharply called by Juan Canito", looking back :
" What are you gaping at there, you Alessandro !
Hurry, now, and get your men to work. After wait
ing till near midsummer for this shearing, we '11
make as quick work of it as we can. Have you got
your best shearers here ? "

74 RAMON A.

" Ay, that I have," answered Alessandro ; " not a man
of them but can shear his hundred in a day. There
is not such a band as ours in all San Diego County ;
and we don't turn out the sheep all bleeding, either ;
you '11 see scarce a scratch on their sides."

" Humph ! " retorted Juan Can. " 'T is a poor
shearer, indeed, that draws blood to speak of. I Ve
sheared many a thousand sheep in my day, and never
a red stain on the shears. But the Mexicans have
always been famed for good shearers."

Juan's invidious emphasis on the word "Mexicans"
did not escape Alessandro. " And we Indians also,"
he answered, good-naturedly, betraying no annoyance ;
" but as for these Americans, I saw one at work the
other day, that man Lomax, who has settled near
Temecula, and upon my faith, Juan Can, I thought
it was a slaughter-pen, and not a shearing. The poor
beasts limped off with the blood running."

Juan did not see his way clear at the moment to any
fitting rejoinder to this easy assumption, on Alessan-
dro's part, of the equal superiority of Indians and
Mexicans in the sheep-shearing art ; so, much vexed,
with another " Humph ! " he walked away ; walked
away so fast, that he lost the sight of a smile 'on
Alessandro's face, which would have vexed him still
farther.

At the sheep-shearing sheds and pens all was stir
and bustle. The shearing shed was a huge carica
ture of a summer-house, — a long, narrow structure,
sixty feet long by twenty or thirty wide, all roof and
pillars ; no walls ; the supports, slender rough posts,
as far apart as was safe, for the upholding the
roof, which was of rough planks loosely laid from
beam to beam. On three sides of this were the sheep-
pens filled with sheep and lambs.

A few rods away stood the booths in which the
shearers' food was to be cooked and the shearers fed.

RAMONA. 75

These were mere temporary affairs, roofed only by
willow boughs with the leaves left on. Near these,
the Indians had already arranged their camp ; a
hut or two of green boughs had been built, but for
the most part they would sleep rolled up in their
blankets, on the ground. There was a brisk wind,
and the gay-colored wings of the windmill blew
furiously round and round, pumping out into the
tank below a stream of water so swift and strong,
that as the men crowded around, wetting and sharp
ening their knives, they got well spattered, and had
much merriment, pushing and elbowing each other
into the spray.

A high four-posted frame stood close to the shed ;
in this, swung from the four corners, hung one of the
great sacking bags in which the fleeces were to be
packed. A big pile of these bags lay on the ground
at foot of the posts. Juan Can eyed them with a
chuckle. " We '11 fill more than those before night,
Senor Felipe," he said. He waa in his element, Juan
Can, at shearing times. Then came his reward for
the somewhat monotonous and stupid year's work.
The world held no better feast for his eyes than the
sight of a long row of big bales of fleece, tied, stamped
with the Moreno brand, ready to be drawn away to
the mills. "Now, there is something substantial,"
he thought ; " no chance of wool going amiss in
market ! "

If a year's crop were good, Juan's happiness was
assured for the next six mouths. If it proved poor,
he turned devout immediately, and spent the next
six months calling on the saints for better luck, and
redoubling his exertions with the sheep.

On one of the posts of the shed short project
ing slats were nailed, like half-rounds of a ladder.
Lightly as a rope-walker Felipe ran up these, to the
roof, and took his stand there, ready to take the

76 RAM ON A.

fleeces and pack them in the bag as fast as they
should be tossed up from below. Luigo, with a big
leathern wallet fastened in front of him, filled with
five-cent pieces, took his stand in the centre of the
shed. The thirty shearers, running into the nearest
pen, dragged each his sheep into the shed, in a
twinkling of an eye had the creature between his
knees, helpless, immovable, and the sharp sound of
the shears set in. The sheep-shearing had begun.
No rest now. Not a second's silence from the bleat
ing, baa-ing, opening and shutting, clicking, sharpen
ing of shears, flying of fleeces through the air to the
roof, pressing and stamping them down in the bales ;
not a second's intermission, except the hour of rest at
noon, from sunrise till sunset, till the whole eight
thousand of the Senora Moreno's sheep were shorn.
It was a dramatic spectacle. As soon as a sheep was
shorn, the shearer ran with the fleece in his hand
to Luigo, threw it down on a table, received his
five-cent piece, dropped it in his pocket, ran to the
pen, dragged out another sheep, and in less than five
minutes was back again with a second fleece. The
shorn sheep, released, bounded off into another pen,
where, light in the head no doubt from being three to
five pounds lighter on their legs, they trotted round
bewilderedly for a moment, then flung up their heels
and capered for joy.

It was warm work. The dust from the fleeces and
the trampling feet filled the air. As the sun rose
'higher in the sky the sweat poured off the men's
faces ; and Felipe, standing without shelter on the roof,
'found out very soon that he had by no means yet got
back his full strength since the fever. Long before
noon, except for sheer pride, and for the recollection
of Juan Canito's speech, he would have come down
and yielded his place to the old man. But he was
resolved not to give up, and he worked on, though his

RAM ON A. 77

face was purple and his head throbbing. After the
bag of fleeces is half full, the packer stands in it,
jumping with his full weight on the wool, as he
throws in the fleeces, to compress them as much as
possible. When Felipe began to do this, he found
that he had indeed overrated his strength. As the
first cloud of the sickening dust came up, enveloping
his head, choking his breath, he turned suddenly
dizzy, and calling faintly, "Juan, I am ill," sank
helpless down in the wool. He had fainted. At
Juan Canito's scream of dismay, a great hubbub and
outcry arose ; all saw instantly what had happened.
Felipe's head was hanging limp over the edge of the
bag, Juan in vain endeavoring to get sufficient foot
hold by his side to lift him. One after another the
men rushed up the ladder, until they were all stand
ing, a helpless, excited crowd, on the roof, one propos
ing one thing, one another. Only Lnigo had had the
presence of mind to run to the house for help. The
Sefiora was away from home. She had gone with
Father Salvierderra to a friend's house, a half-day's
journey off. But Ramona was there. Snatching all
she could think of in way of restoratives, she came
flying back with Luigo, followed by every servant
of the establishment, all talking, groaning, gesticu
lating, suggesting, wringing their hands, — as dis
heartening a Babel as ever made bad matters worse.

Reaching the shed, Ramona looked up to the roof
bewildered. " Where is he ? " she cried. The next
instant she saw his head, held in Juan Canito's arms,
just above the edge of the wool-bag. She groaned,
" Oh, how will he ever be lifted out ! "

" I will lift him, Seiiora," cried Alessandro, coming
to the front. " I am very strong. Do not be afraid ;
I will bring him safe down." And swinging himself
down the ladder, he ran swiftly to the carnp, and
returned, bringing in his hands blankets. Spring-

78 RAMONA.

ing quickly to the roof again, he knotted the blankets
firmly together, and tying them at the middle around his
waist, threw the ends to his men, telling them to hold
him firm. He spoke in the Indian tongue as he was
hurriedly doing this, and liamoua did not at first un
derstand his plan. But wher. she saw the Indians move
a little back from the edge of the roof, holding the
blankets firm grasped, while Alessandro stepped out
on one of the narrow cross-beams from which the bag
swung, she saw what he meant to do. She held her
breath. Felipe was a slender man ; Alessandro was
much heavier, and many inches taller. Still, could
any man carry such a burden safely on that narrow
beam ! Eamona looked away, and shut her eyes,
through the silence which followed. It was only a
few moments ; but it seemed an eternity before a glad
murmur of voices told her that it was done, and look
ing up, she saw Felipe lying on the roof, unconscious,
his face white, his eyes shut. At this sight, all the
servants broke out afresh, weeping and wailing, " He
is dead ! He is dead ! "

Ramona stood motionless, her eyes fixed on Felipe's
face. She, too, believed him dead ; but her thought
was of the Sefiora.

" He is not dead," cried Juan Canito, who had
thrust his hand under Felipe's shirt. " He is not
dead. It is only a faint."

At this the first tears rolled down Ramona's face.
She looked piteously at the ladder up and down which
she had seen Alessandro run as if it were an easy
indoors staircase. " If I could only get up there ! "
she said, looking from one to another. " I think I
can ; " and she put one foot on the lower round.

" Holy Virgin ! " cried Juan Can, seeing her move
ment. "Senorita! Senorita! do not attempt it. It
is not too easy for a man. You will break your neck.
He is fast coming to his senses."

RAMONA. 79

Alcssandro caught the words. Spite of all the
confusion and terror of the scene, his heart heard the
word, " Senorita." Eamona was not the wife of Felipe,
or of any man. Yet Alessandro recollected that he
had addressed her as Seiiora, and she did not seem
surprised. Coming to the front of the group, he said,
bending forward, " Senorita ! " There must have been
something in the tone which made Eamona start.
The simple word could not have done it. " Senorita,"
said Alessandro, " it will be nothing to bring Senor
Felipe down the ladder. He is, in my arms, no more
than one of the lambs yonder. I will bring him
down as soon as he is recovered. He is better here
till then. He will very soon be himself again. It
was only the heat." Seeing that the expression of
anxious distress did not grow less on Eamona' s face,
he continued, in a tone still more earnest, " Will not
the Senorita trust me to bring him safe down ? "

Eamona smiled faintly through her tears. " Yes,"
she said, " I will trust you. You are Alessandro, are
you not ? "

"Yes, Senorita," he answered, greatly surprised,
" I am Alessandro."

VI.

A BAD beginning did not make a good ending-
of the Seiiora Moreno's sheep-shearing this
year. One as superstitiously prejudiced against Eo-
man Catholic rule as she was in favor of it, would
have found, in the way things fell out, ample reason
for a belief that the Senora was being punished for
having let all the affairs of her place come to a stand
still, to await the coming of an old monk. But
the pious Senora, looking at the other side of the
shield, was filled with gratitude that, since all this
ill luck was to befall her, she had the good Father
Salvierderra at her side to give her comfort and
counsel.

It was not yet quite noon of the first day, when
Felipe fainted and fell in the wool ; and it was only
a little past noon of the third, when Juan Canito,
who, not without some secret exultation, had taken
Senor Felipe's place at the packing, fell from the
cross-beam to the ground, and broke his right leg, — a
bad break near the knee ; and Juan Canito's bones
were much too old for fresh knitting. He would
never again be able to do more than hobble about on
crutches, dragging along the useless leg. It was a
' cruel blow to the old man. He could not be resigned
to it. He lost faith in his saints, and privately in
dulged in blasphemous beratings and reproaches of
them, which would have filled the Senora with terror,
had she known that such blasphemies were being com
mitted under her roof.

RAMON A. 81

"As many times as I have crossed that plank, in
my day ! " cried Juan ; " only the fiends themselves
could have made me trip ; and there was that whole
box of candles I paid for with my own money last
month, and burned to Saint Francis in the chapel for
this very sheep-shearing ! He may sit in the dark,
for all me, to the end of time ! He is no saint at all !
What are they for, if not to keep us from harm when
we pray to them ? I '11 pray no more. I believe the
Americans are right, who laugh at us." From morn
ing till night, and nearly from night till morning, for
the leg ached so he slept little, poor Juan groaned
and grumbled and swore, and swore and grumbled
and groaned. Taking care of him was enough, Mar
garita said, to wear out the patience of the Madonna
herself. There was no pleasing him, whatever you
did, and his tongue was never still a minute. For
her part, she believed that it must be as he said, that
the fiends had pushed him off the plank, and that the
saints had had their reasons for leaving him to his
fate. A coldness and suspicion gradually grew up
in the minds of all the servants towards him. His
own reckless language, combined with Margarita's
reports, gave the superstitious fair ground for believ
ing that something had gone mysteriously wrong, and
that the Devil was in a fair way to get his soul, which
was very hard for the old man, in addition to all the
rest he had to bear. The only alleviation he had for
his torments, was in having his fellow-servants, men
and women, drop in, sit by his pallet, and chat with
him, telling him all that was going on ; and when by
degrees they dropped off, coming more and more sel
dom, and one by one leaving off coming altogether, it
was the one drop that overflowed his cup of misery ;
and he turned his face to the wall, left off grumbling,
and spoke only when he must.

This phase frightened Margarita even more than
6

82 RAMON A.

the first. Now, she thought, surely the dumb terror
and remorse of one who belongs to the Devil had
seized him, and her hands trembled as she went
through the needful ministrations for him each day.
Three months, at least, the doctor, who had come from
Ventura to set the leg, had said he must lie still in
bed and be thus tended. " Three months ! " sighed
Margarita. " If I be not dead or gone crazy myself
before the end of that be come ! "

The Sefiora was too busy with Felipe to pay at
tention or to give thought to Juan. Felipe's tainting
had been the symptom and beginning of a fierce re
lapse of the fever, and he was lying in his bed, tossing
and raving in delirium, always about the wool.

" Throw them faster, faster ! That 's a good fleece ;
five pounds more ; a round ton in those bales. Juan !
Alessaudro ! Capitan ! — Jesus, how this sun burns
my head ! "

Several times he had called " Alessandro " so ear
nestly, that Father Salvierderra advised bringing Ales
sandro into the room, to see if by any chance there
might have been something in his mind that he
wished to say to him. But when Alessandro stood
by the bedside, Felipe gazed at him vacantly, as he
did at all the others, still repeating, however, " Ales
sandro ! Alessandro ! "

" I think perhaps he wants Alessandro to play on his
violin," sobbed out Ramona. " He was telling me how
beautifully Alessandro played, and said he would have
him up on the veranda in the evening to play to us."

"We might try it," said Father Salvierderra.
" Have you your violin here, Alessandro ? "

" Alas, no, Father," replied Alessandro, " I did not
bring it."

" Perhaps it would do him good if you were to
sing, then," said Ramona. " He was speaking of your
voice also."

K AM ON A. 83

" Oh, try, try ! " said the Senora, turning to Ales-
sandro. " Sing something low and soft."

Alessandro walked from the bed to the open win
dow, and after thinking for a moment, began a slow
strain from one of the masses.

At the first note, Felipe became suddenly quiet,
evidently listening. An expression of pleasure spread
over his feverish face. He turned his head to one
side, put his hand under his cheek and closed his
eyes. The three watching him looked at each other
in astonishment.

"It is a miracle," said Father Salvierderra. "He
will sleep."

" It was what he wanted ! " whispered Eamona.

The Senora spoke not, but buried her face in the
bedclothes for a second ; then lifting it, she gazed at
Alessandro as if she were praying to a saint. He,
too, saw the change in Felipe, and sang lower and
lower, till the notes sounded as if they came from
afar ; lower and lower, slower ; finally they ceased,
as if they died away lost in distance. As they ceased,
Felipe opened his eyes.

" Oh, go on, go on ! " the Senora implored in a
whisper shrill with anxiety. " Do not stop ! "

Alessandro repeated the strain, slow, solemn ; his
voice trembled ; the air in the room seemed stifling,
spite of the open windows ; he felt something like
terror, as lie saw Felipe evidently sinking to sleep by
reason of the notes of his voice. There had been
nothing in Alessandro's healthy outdoor experience
to enable him to understand such a phenomenon.
Felipe breathed more and more slowly, softly, regu
larly ; soon he was in a deep sleep. The singing
stopped; Felipe did not stir.

" Can I go ? " whispered Alessandro.

" No, no ! " replied the Senora, impatiently. " He
may wake any minute."

84 RAMON A.

Alessandro looked troubled, but bowed his head
submissively, and remained standing by the window.
Father Salvierderra was kneeling on one side of the
bed, the Senora at the other, Rarnona at the foot, —
all praying ; the silence was so great that the slight
sounds of the rosary beads slipping against each other
seemed loud. In a niche in the wall, at the head of
the bed, stood a statue of the Madonna, on the other
side a picture of Santa Barbara. Candles were burn
ing before each. The long wicks smouldered and
died down, sputtering, then flared up again as the
ends fell into the melted wax. The Sefiora's eyes
were fixed on the Madonna. The Father's were
closed. Eamona gazed at Felipe with tears streaming
down her face as she mechanically told her beads.

" She is his betrothed, no doubt," thought Ales
sandro. " The saints will not let him die ; " and Ales
sandro also prayed. But the oppression of the scene
was too much for him. Laying his hand on the low
window-sill, he vaulted over it, saying to Ramona,
who turned her head at the sound, " I will not go
away, Senorita. I will be close under the window,
if he awakes."

Once in the open air, he drew a long breath, and
gazed bewilderedly about him, like one just recover
ing consciousness after a faint. Then he threw him
self on the ground under the window, and lay looking
up into the sky. Capitan came up, and with a low
whine stretched himself out at full length by his side.
The dog knew as well as any other one of the house
that danger and anguish were there.

One hour passed, two, three ; still no sound from
Felipe's room. Alessandro rose, and looked in at the
window. The Father and the Senora had not changed
their attitudes ; their lips were yet moving in prayer.
But Ramona had yielded to her fatigue ; slipped from
her knees into a sitting posture, with her head leaning

RAMONA. 85

against the post of the bedstead, and fallen asleep.
Her face was swollen and discolored by weeping, and
heavy circles under her eyes told how tired she was.
For three days and nights she had scarcely rested, so
constant were the demands on her. Between Felipe's1
illness and Juan Can's, there was not a moment with
out something to be done, or some perplexing question,
to be settled, and above all, and through all, the terrible
sorrow, liamona was broken down with grief at the
thought of Felipe's death. She had never known till
she saw him lying there delirious, and as she in her
inexperience thought, dying, how her whole life was
entwined with his. But now, at the very thought
of what it would be to live without him, her heart
sickened. "When he is buried, I will ask Father
Salvierderra to take me away. I never can live here
alone," she said to herself, never for a moment per
ceiving that the word " alone " was a strange one to
have come into her mind in the connection. The
thought of the Senora did not enter into her imagina
tions of the future which so smote her with terror.
In the Senora's presence, liamona always felt herself
alone.

Alessandro stood at the window, his arms folded,
leaning on the sill, his eyes fixed on Ramona's face
and form. To any other than a lover's eyes she had
not looked beautiful now ; but to Alessandro she
looked more beautiful than the picture of Santa
Barbara on the wall beyond. With a lover's instinct
he knew the thoughts which had written such lines,
on her face in the last three days. " It will kill her
if he dies," he thought, " if these three days have
made her look like that." And Alessandro threw him
self on the ground again, his face down. He did not
know whether it were an hour or a day that he had
lain there, when he heard Father Salvierderra's voice
speaking his name. He sprang up, to see the old

86 RAM ON A.

monk standing in the window, tears running down
his cheeks. " God be praised," he said, " the Senor
Felipe will get well. A sweat has broken out on his
skin ; he still sleeps, but when he wakes he will be
in his right mind. The strength of the fever is
broken. But, Alessandro, we know not how to spare
you. Can you not let the men go without you, and
remain here ? The Senora would like to have you
remain in Juan Can's place till he is about. She will
give you the same wages he had. Would it not be a
good thing for you, Alessandro ? You cannot be sure
of earning so much as that for the next three months,
can you ? "

While the Father was speaking, a tumult had been
going on in Alessandro's breast. He did not know by
name any of the impulses which were warring there,
tearing him in twain, as it were, by their pulling in
opposite directions ; one saying " Stay ! " and the other
saying " Go ! " He would not have known what any
one meant, who had said to him, " It is danger to stay ;
it is safety to fly." All the same, he felt as if he
could do neither.

" There is another shearing yet, Father," he began,
" at the Ortega's ranch. I had promised to go to them
as soon as I had finished here, and they have been
wroth enough with us for the delay already. It will
not do to break the promise, Father."

Father Salvierderra's face fell. " No, my son, cer
tainly not," he said ; " but could no one else take your
place with the baud ? "

Hearing these words, Ramona came to the window,
rand leaning out, whispered, " Are you talking about
Alessandro's staying ? Let me come and talk to him.
He must not go." And running swiftly through the
hall, across the veranda, and down the steps, she stood
by Alessandro's side in a moment. Looking up in his
face pleadingly, she said : " We can't let you go, Ales-

RAMONA. 87

sandro. The Senora will pay wages to some other to
go in your place with the shearers. We want you to
stay here in Juan Can's place till he is well. Don't
say you can't stay ! Felipe may need you to sing
again, and what would we do then ? Can't you
stay ? "

" Yes, I can stay, Senorita," answered Alessandro,
gravely. " I will stay so long as you need me."

" Oh, thank you, Alessandro ! " Eamona cried.
" You are good, to stay. The Senora will see that it
is 110 loss to you ; " and she flew back to the house.

" It is not for the wages, Senorita," Alessandro be
gan ; but Eamona was gone. She did not hear him,
and he turned away with a sense of humiliation. " I
don't want the Senorita to think that it was the
money kept me," he said, turning to Father Salvier-
derra. " I would not leave the band for money ; it is
to help, because they are in trouble, Father."

"Yes, yes, son. I understand that," replied the
monk, who had known Alessandro since he was a
little fellow playing in the corridors of San Luis liey,
the pet of all the Brothers there. " That is quite
right of you, and the Senora will not be insensible
of it. It is not for such things that money can pay.
They are indeed in great trouble now, and only the
two women in the house ; and I must soon be going
on my way North again."

" Is it sure that Seiior Felipe will get well ? " asked
Alessandro.

" I think so," replied Father Salvierderra. " These
relapses are always worse than the first attack ; but
I have never known one to die, after he had the
natural sweat to break from the skin, and got good
sleep. I doubt not he will be in his bed, though, for
many days, and there will be much to be seen to.
It was an ill luck to have Juan Can laid up, too, just
at this time. I must uo and see him ; I hear he is

88 RAM ON A.

in most rebellious frame of mind, and blasphemes
impiously."

" That does he ! " said Alessandro. " He swears
the saints gave him over to the fiends to push him
off the plank, and he '11 have none of them from this
out ! I told him to beware, or they might bring him
• to worse things yet if he did not mend his speech of
them."

Sighing deeply as they walked along, the monk
said : " It is but a sign of the times. Blasphemers are
on the highway. The people are being corrupted.
Keeps your father the worship in the chapel still,
and does a priest come often to the village ? "

" Only twice a year," replied Alessandro ; " and
sometimes for a funeral, if there is money enough to
pay for the mass. But my father has the chapel open,
and each Sunday we sing what we know of the mass ;
and the people are often there praying."

" Ay, ay ! Ever for money ! " groaned Father Sal-
vierderra, not heeding the latter part of the sentence.
" Ever for money ! It is a shame. But that it were
sure to be held as a trespass, I would go myself to
Temecula once in three months ; but I may not. The
priests do not love our order."

" Oh, if you could, Father," exclaimed Alessandro,
" it would make my father very glad ! He speaks
often to me of the difference he sees between the
words of the Church now and in the days of the Mis
sion. He is very sad, Father, and in great fear about
our village. They say the Americans, when they buy
the Mexicans' lands, drive the Indians away as if
they were dogs ; they say we have no right to our
lands. Do you think that can be so, Father, when we
have always lived on them, and the owners promised
them to us forever ? "

Father Salvierderra was silent a long time before
replying, and Alessaiidro watched his face anxiously.

RAMONA.. 89

He seemed to be hesitating for words to convey his
meaning. At last he said : " Got your father any
notice, at any time since the Americans took the
country, — notice to appear before a court, or any
thing about a title to the land ? "

" No, Father," replied Alessandro.

" There has to be some such paper, as I understand
their laws," continued the monk ; " some notice, before
any steps can be taken to remove Indians from an
estate. It must be done according to the law, in the
courts. If you have had no such notice, you are not
in danger."

" But, Father," persisted Alessandro, " how could
there be a law to take away from us the land which
the Senor Valdez gave us forever ? "

" Gave he to you any paper, any writing to show it ?"

" No, no paper ; but it is marked in red lines on
the map. It was marked off by Jose Bamirez, of
Los Angeles, when they marked all the boundaries
of Senor Valdez's estate. They had many instru
ments of brass and wood to measure with, and a long
chain, very heavy, which I helped them carry. I
myself saw it marked on the map. They all slept in
my father's house, — Senor Valdez, and Eamirez, and
the man who made the measures. He hired one of
our men to carry his instruments, and I went to help,
for I wished to see how it was done ; but I could
understand nothing, and Jose told me a man must
study many years to learn the way of it. It seemed
to me our way, by the stones, was much better. But
I know it is all marked on the map, for it was with
a red line ; and my father understood it, and Jose
liamirez and Senor Valdez both pointed to it with
their finger, and they said, ' All this here is your land,
Pablo, always.' I do not think my father need fear,
do you ? "
" I hope not," replied Father Salvierderra, cautiously ;

00 RAMON A.

" but since the way that all the lands of the Missions
have been taken away, I have small faith in the hon
esty of. the Americans. I think they will take all
that they can. The Church has suffered terrible loss
at their hands."

" That is what my father says," replied Alessandro.
" He says, ' Look at San Luis Bey ! Nothing but the
garden and orchard left, of all their vast lands where
fchey used to pasture thirty thousand sheep. If the
Church and the Fathers could not keep their lands,
what can we Indians do ? ' That is what my father
says."

" True, true ! " said the monk, as he turned into the
door of the room where Juan Ca.n lay on his narrow
bed, longing yet fearing to see Father Salvierderra's
face coming in. " We are all alike helpless in their
hands, Alessandro. They possess the country, and
can make what laws they please. We can only say,
'God's will be done ;'" and he crossed himself de
voutly, repeating the words twice.

Alessandro did the same, and with a truly devout
spirit, for he was full of veneration for the Fathers and
their teachings ; but as he walked on towards the shear
ing-shed he thought : " Then, again, how can it be God's
will that wrong be done ? It cannot be God's will that
one man should steal from another all he has. That
would make God no better than a thief, it looks to me.
But how can it happen, if it is not God's will ? "

It does not need that one be educated, to see the
logic in this formula. Generations of the oppressed
and despoiled, before Alessandro, had grappled with
the problem in one shape or another.

At the shearing-shed, Alessandro found his men in
confusion and ill-humor. The shearing had been over
and done by ten in the morning, and why were they
not on their way to the Ortega's ? Waiting all day, —
it was now near sunset, — with nothing to do, and still

RAMONA. 91

worse with not much of anything to cat, had made
them all cross ; and no wonder. The economical Juan
Can, finding that the work would be done by ten, and
supposing they would be off before noon, had ordered
only two sheep killed for them the day before, and
the mutton was all gone, and old Marda, getting her
cue from Juan, had cooked no more frijoles than the
family needed themselves ; so the poor shearers had
indeed had a sorry day of it, in no wise alleviated either
by the reports brought from time to time that their
captain was lying on the ground, face down, under
Senor Felipe's window, and must not be spoken to.

It was not a propitious moment for Alessaudro to
make the announcement of his purpose to leave the
band ; but he made a clean breast of it in few words,
and diplomatically diverted all resentment from him
self by setting them immediately to voting for a new
captain to take his place for the remainder of the
season.

" Very well ! " they said hotly ; " captain for this
year, captain for next, too ! " It was n't so easy to step
out and in again of the captaincy of the shearers !

" All right," said Alessandro ; " please yourselves !
It is all the same to me. But here I am going to
stay for the present. Father Salvierderra wishes it."

" Oh, if the Father wishes it, that is different ! " " Ah,
that alters the case ! " " Alessandro is right ! " came up
in confused murmur from the appeased crowd. They
were all good Catholics, every one of the Temecula
men, and would never think of going against the
Father's orders. But when they understood that
Alessandro's intention was to remain until Juan
Canito's leg should be well enough for him to go
about again, fresh grumblings began. That would
not do. It would be all summer. Alessandro must
be at home for the Saint Juan's Day fete, in mid
summer, — no doing anything without Alessandro

92 RAM ON A.

then. What was he thinking of ? Not of the mid
summer fete, that was certain, when he promised to
stay as long as the Senorita Ramona should need
him. Alessandro had remembered nothing except
the Senorita's voice, while she was speaking to him.
If he had had a hundred engagements for the sum
mer, he would have forgotten them all. Now that he
was reminded of the midsummer fete, it must be
confessed he was for a moment dismayed at the recol
lection ; for that was a time when, as he well knew,
his father could not do without his help. There were
sometimes a thousand Indians at this fete, and dis
orderly whites took advantage of the occasion to sell
whiskey and encourage all sorts of license and dis
turbance. Yes, Alessandro's clear path of duty lay
at Temecula when that fete came off. That was
certain.

" I will manage to be at home then," he said. " If
I am not through here by that time, I will at least
come for the fete. That you may depend on."

The voting for the new captain did not take long.
There was, in fact, but one man in the band fit for the
office. That was Fernando, the only old man in the
band ; all the rest were young men under thirty, or
boys. Fernando had been captain for several years, but
had himself begged, two years ago, that the band would
elect Alessandro in his place. He was getting old, and
he did not like to have to sit up and walk about the first
half of every night, to see that the shearers were not
gambling away all their money at cards ; he preferred
to roll himself up in his blanket at sunset and sleep
till dawn the next morning. But just for these few
remaining weeks he had no objection to taking the
office again. And Alessandro was right, entirely right,
in remaining ; they ought all to see that, Fernando
said ; and his word had great weight with the men.

The Senora Moreno, he reminded them, had always

RAMONA. 93

been a good friend of theirs, and had said that so long
as she had sheep to shear, the Temecula shearers
should do it ; and it would be very ungrateful now if
they did not do all they could to help her in her need.

The blankets were rolled up, the saddles collected,
the ponies caught and driven up to the shed, when
Eamona and Margarita were seen coming at full speed
from the house.

" Alessandro ! Alessandro !" cried Eamona, out of
breath, " I have only just now heard that the men have
nad no dinner to-day. I am ashamed ; but you know
it would not have happened except for the sickness in
the house. Everybody thought they were going away
this morning. Now they must have a good supper
before they go. It is already cooking. Tell them to
wait."

Those of the men who understood the Spanish lan
guage, in which Eamona spoke, translated it to those
who did not, and there was a cordial outburst of thanks
to the Senorita from all lips. All were only too ready
to wait for the supper. Their haste to begin on the
Ortega sheep-shearing had suddenly faded from their
minds. Only Alessandro hesitated.

" It is a good six hours' ride to Ortega's," he said
to the men. " You '11 be late in, if you do not start
now."

" Supper will be ready in an hour," said Eamona.
" Please let them stay ; one hour can't make any differ
ence."

Alessandro smiled. "It will take nearer two,
.Senorita, before they are off," he said ; " but it shall
',be as you wish, and many thanks to you, Senorita,
for thinking of it."

" Oh, I did not think of it myself," said Eamona.
" It was Margarita, here, who came and told me. She
knew we would be ashamed to have the shearers go
away hungry. I am afraid they are very hungry

94 RAMON A.

indeed," she added ruefully. " It must be dreadful to
go a whole day without anything to eat ; they had
their breakfast soon after sunrise, did they not ? "

" Yes, Senorita," answered Alessandro, " but that is
not long ; one can do without food very well for one
day. I often do."

" Often ! " exclaimed Ramona ; " but why should you
do that ? " Then suddenly bethinking herself, she
said in her heart, " Oh, what a thoughtless, question !
Can it be they are so poor as that ? " And to save
Alessandro from replying, she set off on a run for the
house, saying, " Come, come, Margarita, we must go
and help at the supper."

" Will the Senorita let me help, too," asked Alessan
dro, wondering at his own boldness, — " if there is any
thing I can do ? "

" Oh, no," she cried, " there is not. Yes, there is,
too. You can help carry the things down to the
booth ; for we are short of hands now, with Juan Can
in bed, and Luigo gone to Ventura for the doctor.
You and some of your men might carry all the sup
per over. I '11 call you when we are ready."

The men sat down in a group and waited content
edly, smoking, chatting, and laughing. Alessandro
walked up and down between the kitchen and the
shed. He could hear the sounds of rattling dishes,
jingling spoons, frying, pouring water. Savory smells
began to be wafted out. Evidently old Marda meant
to atone for the shortcoming of the noon. Juan Can,
in his bed, also heard and smelled what was going on.
" May the fiends get me," he growled, " if that waste
ful old hussy is n't getting up a feast for those beasts
of Indians ! There 's mutton and onions, and peppers
stewing, and potatoes, I '11 be bound, and God knows
what else, for beggars that are only too thankful to
get a handful of roasted wheat or a bowl of acorn
porridge at home. Well, they'll have to say they

RAMONA. 95

were well feasted at the Moreno's, — that 's one com
fort. I wonder if Margarita '11 think I am worthy
of tasting that stew ! San Jose ! but it smells well !
Margarita ! Margarita ! " he called at top of his,
lungs ; but Margarita did not hear. She was ab
sorbed in her duties in the kitchen ; and having
already taken Juan at sundown a bowl of the good
broth which the doctor had said was the only sort
of food he must eat for two weeks, she had dismissed
him from her mind for the night. Moreover, Mar
garita was absent-minded to-night. She was more
than half in love with the handsome Alessandro, who,
when he had been on the ranch the year before, had
danced with her, and said many a light pleasant word
to her, evenings, as a young man may ; and what
ailed him now, that he seemed, when he saw her, as if
she were no more than a transparent shade, through
which he stared at the sky behind her, she did not know.
Serior Felipe's illness, she thought, and the general
misery and confusion, had perhaps put everything else
out of his head ; but now he was going to stay, and
it would be good fun having him there, if only Sefior
Felipe got well, which he seemed like to do. And as
Margarita flew about, here, there, and everywhere, she
cast frequent glances at the tall straight figure pacing
up and down in the dusk outside.

Alessandro did not see her. He did not see any
thing. He was looking off at the sunset, and listen
ing. Ramona had said, " I will call you when we are
ready." But she did not do as she said. She told
Margarita to call.

" Bun, Margarita," she said. " All is ready now ;'
see if Alessandro is in sight. Call him to come and
take the things."

So it was Margarita's voice, and not Eamona's,
that called, " Alessaudro ! Alessandro ! the supper is
ready."

96 RAMON A.

But it was Eamona who, when Alessandro reached
the doorway, stood there holding in her arms a huge
smoking platter of the stew which had so roused poor
Juan Can's longings ; and it was Eamona who said,
as she gave it into Alessandro's hands, " Take care,
Alessandro, it is very full. The gravy will run over if
you are not careful. You are not used to waiting on
table ; " and as she said it, she smiled full into Ales-
saudro's eyes, — a little flitting, gentle, friendly smile,
which went near to making him drop the platter,
mutton, gravy, and all, then and there, at her feet.

The men ate fast and greedily, and it was not, after
all, much more than an hour, when, full fed and
happy, they were mounting their horses to set off. At
the last moment Alessaudro drew one of them aside.
" Jose," he said, " whose horse is the faster, yours or
Antonio's ? "

" Mine," promptly replied Jose. " Mine, by a great
deal. I will run Antonio any day he likes."

Alessandro knew this as well before asking as after.
But Alessandro was learning a great many things in
these days, among other things a little diplomacy.
He wanted a man to ride at the swiftest to Temecula
and back. He knew that Jose's pony could go like the
wind. He also knew that there was a perpetual feud
of rivalry between him and Antonio, in matter of
the fleetness of their respective ponies. So, having
chosen Jose for his messenger, he went thus to work
to make sure that he would urge his horse to its
utmost speed.

Whispering in Jose's ear a few words, he said,
" Will you go ? I will pay you for the time, all you
could earn at the shearing."

" I will go," said Jose, elated. " You will see me
back to-morrow by sundown."

" Not earlier ? " asked Alessandro. " I thought by
noon."

ItAMOMA. 97

" Well, by noon be it, then," said Jose. " The horse
can do it."

" Have great care ! " said Alessandro.

" That will I," replied Jose" ; and giving his horse's
sides a sharp punch with his knees, set off at full
gallop westward.

" I have sent Jose with a message to Temecula,"
said Alessandro, walking up to Fernando. " He will be
back here to-morrow noon, and join you at the Ortega's
the next morning."

" Back here by noon to-morrow ! " exclaimed Fer
nando. " Not unless he kills his horse ! "

" That was what he said, " replied Alessandro, non
chalantly.

"Easy enough, too !" cried Antonio, riding up on his
little dun mare. " I 'd go in less time than that, on
this mare. Jose's is no match for her, and never was.
Why did you not send me, Alessandro ? "

" Is your horse really faster than Jose's ?" said Ales
sandro. " Then I wish I had sent you. I '11 send you
next time."

VII.

IT was strange to see how quickly and naturally
Alessandro fitted into his place in the household.
How tangles straightened out, and rough places became
smooth, as he quietly took matters in hand. Luckily,
old Juan Can had always liked him, and felt a great
sense of relief at the news of his staying on. Not a
wholly unselfish relief, perhaps, for since his accident
Juan had not been without fears that he might lose
his place altogether ; there was a Mexican he knew,
who had long been scheming to get the situation, and
had once openly boasted at a fandango, where he was
dancing with Anita, that as soon as that superannuated
old fool, Juan Canito, was out of the way, he meant
to be the Senora Moreno's head shepherd himself. To
have seen this man in authority on the place, would
have driven Juan out of his mind.

But the gentle Alessandro, only an Indian, • — and
of course the Senora would never think of putting an
Indian permanently in so responsible a position on the
estate, — it was exactly as Juan would have wished ;
and he fraternized with Alessandro heartily from the
outset ; kept him in his room by the hour, giving him
hundreds of long-winded directions and explanations
about things which, if only he had known it, Ales
sandro understood far better than he did.

Alessandro's father had managed the Mission flocks
and herds at San Luis Eey for twenty years ; few
were as skilful as he; he himself owned nearly as
many sheep as the Senora Moreno ; but this Juan did
not know. Neither did he realize that Alessaudro,

RAMONA. 99

as Chief Pablo's son, had a position of his own not
without dignity and authority. To Juan, an Indian
was an Indian, and that was the end of it. The gen
tle courteousriess of Alessaudro's manner, his quiet
behavior, were all set down in Juan's mind to the score
of the boy's native amiability and sweetness. If Juan
had been told that the Senor Felipe himself had not
been more carefully trained in all precepts of kind
liness, honorable dealing, and polite usage, by the
Senora, his mother, than had Alessandro by his father,
he would have opened his eyes wide. The stand
ards of the two parents were different, to be sure ;
but the advantage could not be shown to be entirely
on the Senora' s side. There were many things that
Felipe knew, of which Alessandro was profoundly igno
rant ; but there were others in which Alessandro could
have taught Felipe ; and when it came to the things
of the soul, and of honor, Alessandro's plane was the
higher of the two. Felipe was a fair-minded, honor
able man, as men go ; but circumstance and oppor
tunity would have a hold on him they could never
get on Alessandro. Alessandro would not lie ; Felipe
might. Alessandro was by nature full of veneration
and the religious instinct ; Felipe had been trained
into being a good Catholic. But they were both
singularly pure-minded, open-hearted, generous-souled
young men, and destined, by the strange chance which
had thus brought them into familiar relations, to
become strongly attached to each other. After the
day on which the madness of Felipe's fever had been
so miraculously soothed and controlled by Alessandro's
singing, he was never again wildly delirious. When
he waked in the night from that first long sleep, he
was, as Father Salvierderra had predicted, in his right
mind ; knew every one, and asked rational questions.
But the over-heated and excited brain did not for
some time wholly resume normal action. At inter-

100 RAMON A.

vals he wandered, especially when just arousing from
sleep ; and, strangely enough, it was always for Ales-
sandro that he called at these times, and it seemed
always to be music that he craved. He recollected
Alessandro's having sung to him that first night.
" I was not so crazy as you all thought," he said. " I
knew a great many of the things I said, but I could n't
help saying them ; and I heard Eamona ask Alessan-
dro to sing ; and when he began, I remember I thought
the Virgin had reached down and put her hand on
my head and cooled it."

On the second evening, the first after the shearers
had left, Alessaudro, seeing Eamona in the veranda,
went to the foot of the steps, and said, " Senorita,
would Senor Felipe like to have me play on the vio
lin to him to-night ? "

" Why, whose violin have you got ? " exclaimed
Eamona, astonished.

" My own, Senorita."

" Your own ! I thought you said you did not bring
it."

" Yes, Senorita, that is true ; but I sent for it last
night, and it is here."

"Sent to Ternecula and back already!" cried
Eamona.

" Yes, Senorita. Our ponies are swift and strong.
They can go a hundred miles in a day, and not suffer.
It was Jose* brought it, and he is at the Ortega's by
this time."

Eamona's eyes glistened. "I wish I could have
thanked him," she said. " You should have let me
know. He ought to have been paid for going."

" I paid him, Senorita ; he went for me ; " said
Alessandro, with a shade of wounded pride in the
tone, which Eamona should have perceived, but
did not, and went on hurting the lover's heart still
more.

RAMONA. 101

" But it was for us that you sent for it, Alessandro ;
the Senora would rather pay the messenger herself."

" It is paid, Senorita. It is nothing. If the Senor
Felipe wishes to hear the violin, I will play ; " and
Alessandro walked slowly away.

Ramona gazed after him. For the first time, she
looked at him with no thought of his being an Indian,
— a thought there had surely been no need of her
having, since his skin was not a shade darker than
Felipe's ; but so strong was the race feeling, that
never till that moment had she forgotten it.

" What a superb head, and what a walk ! " she
thought. Then, looking more observantly, she said :
" He walks as if he were offended. He did not like
my offering to pay for the messenger. He wanted
to do it for dear Felipe. I will tell Felipe, and we
will give him some present when he goes away."

"Is n't he splendid, Senorita?" came in a light
laughing tone from Margarita's lips close to her ear,
in the fond freedom of their relation. " Is n't he
splendid ? And oh, Senorita, you can't think how he
dances ! Last year I danced with him every night ;
he has wings on his feet, for all he is so tall and big."

There was a coquettish consciousness in the girl's
tone, that was suddenly, for some unexplained reason,
exceedingly displeasing to Eamona. Drawing herself
away, she spoke to Margarita in a tone she had never
before in her life used. " It is not fitting to speak
like that about young men. The Senora would be
displeased if she heard you," she said, and walked
swiftly away, leaving poor Margarita as astounded as
if she had got a box on the ear.

She looked after Eamona's retreating figure, then
after Alessandro's. She had heard them talking to
gether just before she came up. Thoroughly bewil
dered and puzzled, she stood motionless for several
seconds, reflecting ; then, shaking her head, she ran

102 RAMON A,

away, trying to dismiss the harsh speech from her mind.
" Alessandro must have vexed the Senorita," she
thought, " to make her speak like that to me." But
the incident was not so easily dismissed from Marga
rita's thoughts. Many times in the day it recurred to
her, still a bewilderment and a puzzle, as far from solu
tion as ever. It was a tiny seed, whose name she did
not dream of; but it was dropped in soil where it
would grow some day, — forcing-house soil, and a bit
ter seed ; and when it blossomed, Eamona would have
an enemy.

All unconscious, equally of Margarita's heart and
her own, Eamona proceeded to Felipe's room. Felipe
was sleeping, the Senora sitting by his side, as she
had sat for days and nights, — her dark face looking
thinner and more drawn each day ; her hair looking
even whiter, if that could be ; and her voice growing
hollow from faintness and sorrow.

" Dear Senora," whispered Eamona, " do go out for
a few moments while he sleeps, and let me watch, —
just on the walk in front of the veranda. The sun is
still lying there, bright and warm. You will be ill if
you do not have air."

The Senora shook her head. " My place is here,"
she answered, speaking in a dry, hard tone. Sympa
thy was hateful to the Senora Moreno ; she wished
neither to give it nor take it. "I shall not leave
him. I do not need the air."

Eamona had a cloth-of-gold rose in her hand. The
veranda eaves were now shaded with them, hang
ing down like a thick fringe of golden tassels. It
|was the rose Felipe loved best. Stooping, she laid it
'on the bed, near Felipe's head. " He will like to see
it when he wakes," she said.

The Senora seized it, and flung it far out in the
room. " Take it away ! Flowers are poison when one
is ill," she said coldly. " Have I never told you that ? "

RAMON A. 103

"No, Seiiora," replied Eamona, meekly; and she
glanced involuntarily at the saucer of musk which
the Senora kept on the tahle close to Felipe's pillow.

"The musk is different," said the Seiiora, seeing
the glance. " Musk is a medicine ; it revives."

Eamona knew, but she would have never dared to
say, that Felipe hated musk. Many times he had said
to her how he hated the odor ; but his mother was so
fond of it, that it must always be that the veranda and
the house would be full of it. Eamona hated it too.
At times it made her faint, with a deadly faintness.
But neither she nor Felipe would have confessed as
much to the Senora ; and if they had, she would
have thought it all a fancy.

" Shall I stay ? " asked Eamona, gently.

" As you please," replied the Senora. The simple
presence of Eamona irked her now with a feeling she
did not pretend to analyze, and would have been
terrified at if she had. She would not have dared to
say to herself, in plain words: "Why is that girl
well and strong, and my Felipe lying here like to
die ! If Felipe dies, I cannot bear the sight of her.
What is she, to be preserved of the saints ! "

But that, or something like it, was what she felt
whenever Eamona entered the room; still more, when
ever she assisted in ministering to Felipe. If it had
been possible, the Sefiora would have had no hands
but her own do aught for her boy. Even tears from
Eamona sometimes irritated her. "What does she
know about loving Felipe I He is nothing to her ! "
thought the Senora, strangely mistaken, strangely
blind, strangely forgetting how feeble is the tie of
blood in the veins by the side of love in the heart.

If into this fiery soul of the Senora's could have
been dropped one second's knowledge of the relative
positions she and Eamona already occupied in Felipe's
heart, she would, on the spot, have either died herself,

104 RAMON A.

or have slain Ramona, one or the other. But no such
knowledge was possible ; no such idea could have
found entrance into the Senora's mind. A revelation
from Heaven of it could hardly have reached even
her ears. So impenetrable are the veils which, for
tunately for us all, are forever held by viewless
hands between us and the nearest and closest of our
daily companions.

At twilight of this day Felipe was restless and
feverish again. He had dozed at intervals all day
lung, but had had no refreshing sleep.

" Send for Alessandro," he said. " Let him come
and sing to me."

" He has his violin now ; he can play, if you would
like that better," said Eamona ; and she related what
Alessandro had told her of the messenger's having
ridden to Temecula and back in a night and half a
day, to bring it.

" I wanted to pay the man," she said ; " I knew of
course your mother would wish to reward him. But
I fancy Alessandro was offended. He answered me
shortly that it was paid, and it was nothing."

" You could n't have offended him more," said
Felipe. " What a pity ! He is as proud as Lucifer
himself, that Alessandro. You know his father has
always been the head of their band ; in fact, he has
authority over several bands ; General, they call it now,
since they got the title from the Americans ; they used
to call it Chief, and until Father Peyri left San Luis
Eey, Pablo was in charge of all the sheep, and general
steward and paymaster. Father Peyri trusted him
with everything ; I Ve heard he would leave boxes
full of uncounted gold in Pablo's charge to pay off
the Indians. Pablo reads and writes, and is very well
off; he has as many sheep as we have, I fancy ! "

" What ! " exclaimed Eamona, astonished. " They
all look as if they were poor."

RAMONA. 105

" Oh, well, so they are," replied Felipe, " compared
with us; but one reason is, they share everything
with each other. Old Pablo feeds and supports half
his village, they say. So long as he has anything, he
will never see one of his Indians hungry."

" How generous ! " warmly exclaimed Eamona ; " I
think they are better than we are, Felipe ! "

"I think so, too," said Felipe. "That's what I
have always said. The Indians are the most generous
people in the world. Of course they have learned it
partly from us ; but they were very much so when the
Fathers first came here. You ask Father Salvierderra
some day. He has read all Father Junipero's and
Father Crespi's diaries, and he says it is wonderful how
the wild savages gave food to every one who came."

"Felipe! you are talking too much," said the
Senora's voice, in the doorway ; and as she spoke
she looked reproachfully at Eamona. If she had
said in words, " See how unfit you are to be trusted
with Felipe. No wonder I do not leave the room
except when I must ! " her meaning could not have
been plainer. Eamona felt it keenly, and not with
out some misgiving that it was deserved.

" Oh, dear Felipe, has it hurt you ? " she said tim
idly; and to the Senora, "Indeed, Senora, he has
been speaking but a very few moments, very low."

" Go call Alessandro, Ramona, will you ? " said
Felipe. "Tell him to bring his violin. I think I
will go to sleep if he plays."

A long search Eamona had for Alessandro. Every
body had seen him a few minutes ago, but nobody
knew where he was now. Kitchens, sheepfolds,
vineyards, orchards, Juan Can's bedchamber, — Ea
mona searched them all in vain. At last, standing
at the foot of the veranda steps, and looking down
the garden, she thought she saw figures moving under
the willows by the washing-stones.

106 RAMONA.

" Can he be there ? " she said. " What can he be
doing there ? Who is it with him ? " And she walked
down the path, calling, " Alessandro ! Alessandro ! "

At the first sound, Alessandro sprang from the
side of his companion, and almost before the second
syllables had been said, was standing face to face
with Ramona.

"Here I am, Senorita. Does Senor Felipe want
me ? I have my violin here. I thought perhaps
he would like to have me play to him in the twi
light."

" Yes," replied Eamona, " he wishes to hear you. I
have been looking everywhere for you." As she
spoke, she was half unconsciously peering beyond
into the dusk, to see whose figure it was, slowly
moving by the brook.

Nothing escaped Alessandro's notice where Ea
mona was concerned. " It is Margarita," he said
instantly. "Does the Senorita want her? Shall I
run and call her ? "

"No," said Eamona, again displeased, she knew
not why, nor in fact knew she was displeased ; " no,
I was not looking for her. What is she doing-
there ? "

" She is washing," replied Alessandro, innocently.

" Washing at this time of day ! " thought Eamona,
severely. " A mere pretext. I shall watch Margarita.
The Seiiora would never allow this sort of thing."
And as she walked back to the house by Alessandro's
side, she meditated whether or no she would herself
speak to Margarita on the subject in the morning.

Margarita, in the mean time, was also having her
season of reflections not the pleasantest. As she
soused her aprons up and down in the water, she said
to herself, " I may as well finish them now I am
here. How provoking! I've no more than got a
word with him, than she must come, calling hirn

RAMONA. 107

away. And he flies as if he was shot on an arrow,
at the first word. 1 'd like to know what 's come
over the man, to be so different. If I could ever get
a good half-hour with him alone, I 'd soon find out.
Oh, but his eyes go through me, through and through
me ! I know he 's an Indian, but what do I care for,
that. He 's a million times handsomer than Seiior
Felipe. And Juan Jose said the other day he 'd
make enough better head shepherd than old Juan
Can, if Senor Felipe 'd only see it ; and why
should n't he get to see it, if Alessandro 's here all
summer ? " And before the aprons were done, Mar
garita had a fine air-castle up : herself and Alessandro
married, a nice little house, children playing in the
sunshine below the artichoke-patch, she herself still
working for the Senora. "And the Senorita will
perhaps marry Senor Felipe," she added, her thoughts
moving more hesitatingly. " He worships the ground
she walks on. Anybody with quarter of a blind eye
can see that; but maybe the Senora would not let
him. Anyhow, Senor Felipe is sure to have a wife,
and so and so." It was an innocent, girlish castle, built
of sweet and natural longings, for which no maiden,
high or low, need blush; but its foundations were
laid in sand, on which would presently beat such
winds and floods as poor little Margarita never
dreamed of.

The next day Margarita and Eamona both went
about their day's business with a secret purpose in
their hearts. Margarita had made up her mind
that before night she would, by fair means or foul,
have a good long talk with Alessandro. "He was
fond enough of me last year, I know," she said to
herself, recalling some of the dances and the good
night leave-takings at that time. " It 's because he is
so put upon by everybody now. What with Juan
Can iii one bed sending for him to prate to him about

108 RAMON A.

the sheep, and Senor Felipe in another sending for
him to fiddle him to sleep, and all the care of the
sheep, it 's a wonder he 's not out of his mind alto
gether. But I '11 find a chance, or make one, before
this day's sun sets. If I can once get a half-hour
with him, I 'm not afraid after that ; I know the way
it is with men ! " said the confident Margarita, who,
truth being told, it must be admitted, did indeed
know a great deal about the way it is with men,
and could be safely backed, in a fair field, with a
fair start, against any girl of her age and station in
the country. So much for Margarita's purpose, at the
outset of a day destined to be an eventful one in her
life.

Ramona's purpose was no less clear. She had
decided, after some reflection, that she would not
speak to the Sefiora about Margarita's having been
under the willows with Alessandro in the previous
evening, but would watch her carefully and see
whether there were any farther signs of her attempt
ing to have clandestine interviews with him.

This course she adopted, she thought, chiefly be
cause of her affection for Margarita, and her unwill
ingness to expose her to the Senora's displeasure,
which would be great, and terrible to bear. She was
also aware of an unwillingness to bring anything to
light which would reflect ever so lightly upon Ales
sandro in the Senora's estimation. " And he is not
really to blame," thought Eamona, " if a girl follows
him about and makes free with him. She must have
seen him at the willows, and gone down there on
purpose to meet him, making a pretext of the wash
ing. For she never in this world would have gone
to wash in the dark, as he must have known, if he
were not a fool. He is not the sort of person, it
seems to me, to be fooling with maids. He seems as
full of crave thought as Father Salvierderra. If I see

r
RAMON A. 109

anything amiss in Margarita to-day, I shall speak to
her myself, kindly but tirrnly, and tell her to conduct
herself more discreetly."

Then, as the other maiden's had done, Eamona's
thoughts, being concentrated on Alessandro, altered
a little from their first key, and grew softer and more
imaginative ; strangely enough, taking some of the
phrases, as it were, out of the other maiden's mouth.

" I never saw such eyes as Alessandro has," she
said. " I wonder any girl should make free with
him. Even I myself, when he fixes his eyes on me,
feel a constraint. There is something in them like
the eyes of a saint, so solemn, yet so mild. I am
sure he is very good."

And so the day opened ; and if there were abroad
in the valley that day a demon of mischief, let loose
to tangle the skeins of human affairs, things could
not have fallen out better for his purpose than they
did ; for it was not yet ten o'clock of the morning,
when Eamona, sitting at her embroidery in the ve
randa, half hid behind the vines, saw Alessandro
going with his priming-knife in his hand towards the
artichoke-patch at the east of the garden, and joining
the almond orchard. " I wonder what he is going
to do there," she thought. " He can't be going to cut
willows;" and her eyes followed him till he disap
peared among the trees.

Eamona was not the only one who saw this.
Margarita, looking from the east window of Father
Salvierderra's room, saw the same thing. " Now 's
my chance ! " she said ; and throwing a white reboso
coquettishly over her head, she slipped around the
corner of the house. She ran swiftly in the direction
in which Alessandro had gone. The sound of her
steps reached Eamona, who, lifting her eyes, took in
the whole situation at a glance. There was no pos
sible duty, no possible message, which would take

110 RAMON A.

Margarita there. Eamona's cheeks blazed with a dis
proportionate indignation. But she bethought herself,
" Ah, the Senora may have sent her to call Alessan-
dro ! " She rose, went to the door of Felipe's room,
and looked in. The Senora was sitting in the chair
by Felipe's bed, with her eyes closed. Felipe was
dozing. The Senora opened her eyes, and looked
inquiringly at Eamona.

"Do you know where Margarita is ?" said Eamona.

" In Father Salvierderra's room, or else in the
kitchen helping Marda," replied the Senora, in a
whisper. " I told her to help Marda with the
peppers this morning."

Eamona nodded, returned to the veranda, and
sat down to decide on her course of action. Then
she rose again, and going to Father Salvierderra's
room, looked in. The room was still in disorder.
Margarita had left her work there unfinished. The
color deepened on Eamona's cheeks. It was strange
how accurately she divined each process of the inci
dent. " She saw him from this window," said Ea
mona, " and has run after him. It is shameful. I
will go and call her back, and let her see that I saw
it all. It is high time that this was stopped."

But once back in the veranda, Eamona halted, and
seated herself in her chair again. The idea of seem
ing to spy was revolting to her.

" I will wait here till she comes back," she said,
and took up her embroidery. But she could not
work. As the minutes went slowly by, she sat with
her eyes fixed on the almond orchard, where first
Alessandro and then Margarita had disappeared. At
last she could bear it no longer. It seemed to her
already a very long time. It was not in reality very
long, — a half .hour or so, perhaps ; but it was long
enough for Margarita to have made great headway,
as she thought, in her talk with Alessandro, and for

RAMON A.

things to have reached just the worst possible crisis
at which they could have been surprised, when Ra-
rnona suddenly appeared at the orchard gate, saying
in a stern tone, " Margarita, you are wanted in the
house ! " At a bad crisis, indeed, for everybody con
cerned. The picture which Ramona had seen, as she
reached the gate, was this : Alessaudro, standing with
his back against the fence, his right hand hanging
listlessly down, with the priming-knife in it, his left
hand in the hand of Margarita, who stood close to
him, looking up in his face, with a half-saucy, half-
loving expression. What made bad matters worse,
was, that at the first sight of Ramona, Alessandro
snatched his hand from Margarita's, and tried to draw
farther off from her, looking at her with an expres
sion which, even in her anger, Ramona could not help
seeing was one of disgust and repulsion. And if
Ramona saw it, how much more did Margarita ! Saw
it, felt it, as only a woman repulsed in presence of an
other woman can see and feel. The whole thing was
over in the twinkling of an eye ; the telling it takes
double, treble the time of the happening. Before
Alessandro was fairly aware what had befallen, Ra
mona and Margarita were disappearing from view
under the garden trellis, — Ramona walking in ad
vance, stately, silent, and Margarita following, sulky,
abject in her gait, but with a raging whirlwind in her
heart.

It had taken only the twinkling of an eye, but it
had told Margarita the truth. Alessandro too.

" My God ! " he said, " the Senorita thought me
making love to that girl. May the fiends get her !
The Senorita looked at me as if I were a dog. How
could she think a man would look at a woman after
he had once seen her ! And I can never, never speak
to her to tell her ! Oh, this cannot be borne ! " And
in his rage Alessaudro threw his pruniug-knife whirl-

112 RAMON A.

ing through the air so fiercely, it sank to the hilt in
one of the old olive-trees. He wished he were dead.
He was minded to flee the place. How could he
ever look the Senorita in the face again !

" Perdition take that girl ! " he said over and over
in his helpless despair. An ill outlook for Margarita
after this ; and the girl had not deserved it.

In Margarita's heart the pain was more clearly de
fined. She had seen Earnona a half-second before
Alessandro had ; and dreaming no special harm, ex
cept a little confusion at being seen thus standing
with him, — for she would tell the Senorita all about
it when matters had gone a little farther, — had not
let go of Alessandro's hand. But the next second
she had seen in his face a look ; oh, she would never
forget it, never ! That she should live to have had
any man look at her like that ! At the first glimpse
of the Senorita, all the blood in his body seemed
rushing into his face, and he had snatched his hand
away, — for it was Margarita herself that had taken
his hand, not he hers, — had snatched his hand away,
and pushed her from him, till she had nearly fallen.
All this might have been borne, if it had been only
a fear of the Senorita's seeing them, which had made
him do it. But Margarita knew a great deal better
than that. That one swift, anguished, shame-smitten,
appealing, worshipping look on Alessandro's face, as
his eyes rested on Earnona, was like a flash of light
into Margarita's consciousness. Far better than Ales
sandro himself, she now knew his secret. In her
first rage she did not realize either the gulf between
herself and Eamona, or that between Eamona and
Alessandro. Her jealous rage was as entire as if they
had all been equals together. She lost her head alto
gether, and there was embodied insolence in the tone
in which she said presently, " Did the Senorita want
me?"

RAMON A. 113

Turning swiftly on her, and looking her full in the
eye, Kamona said : " I saw you go to the orchard,
Margarita, and I knew what you went for. I knew
that you. were at the brook last night with Alessan-
dro. All I wanted of you was to tell you that if I
see anything more of this sort, I shall speak to the
Senora."

" There is no harm," muttered Margarita, sullenly.
" I don't know what the Seuorita means."

" You know very well, Margarita," retorted Ka-
mona. " You know that the Senora permits nothing
of the kind. Be careful, now, what you do." And with
that the two separated, Kamona returning to the
veranda and her embroidery, and Margarita to her
neglected duty of making the good Father's bed. But
each girl's heart was hot and unhappy ; and Marga
rita's would have been still hotter and unhappier, had
she heard the words which were being spoken on the
veranda a little later.

After a few minutes of his blind rage at Marga
rita, himself, and fate generally, Alessandro, recovering
his senses, had ingeniously persuaded himself that, as
the Senora' s and also the Senorita's servant, for the
time being, he owed it to them to explain the situ
ation in which he had just been found. Just what
he was to say he did not know ; but no sooner had
the thought struck him, than he set off at full speed
for the house, hoping to find Kamona on the veranda,
where he knew she spent all her time when not with
Sefior Felipe.

When Kamona saw him coming, she lowered her
eyes, and was absorbed in her embroidery. She did
not wish to look at him.

The footsteps stopped. She knew he was standing
at the steps. She would not look up. She thought
if she did not, he would go away. She did not know
either the Indian or the lover nature. After a time,

114 RAMON A.

finding the consciousness of the soundless presence
intolerable, she looked up, and surprised on Alessan-
dro's face a gaze which had, in its long interval of
freedom from observation, been slowly gathering up
into it all the passion of the man's soul, as a burning-
glass draws the fire of the sun's rays. Involuntarily
a low cry burst from Eamona's lips, and she sprang to
her feet.

" Ah ! did I frighten the Senorita ? Forgive. I
have been waiting here a long time to speak to her.
I wished to say —

Suddenly Alessandro discovered that he did not
know what he wished to say.

As suddenly, Eamona discovered that she knew all
he wished to say. But she spoke not, only looked at
him searchingly.

" Senorita," he began again, " I would never be
unfaithful to my duty to the Senora, and to you."

" I believe you, Alessandro," said Eamona. " It is
not necessary to say more."

At these words a radiant joy spread over Alessan-
dro's face. He had not hoped for this. He felt,
rather than heard, that Eamona understood him. He
felt, for the first time, a personal relation between him
self and her.

" It is well," he said, in the brief phrase so fre
quent with his people. "It is well." And with a
reverent inclination of his head, he walked away.
Margarita, still dawdling surlily over her work in
Father Salvierderra's room, heard Alessandro's voice,
and running to discover to whom he was speaking,
caught these last words. Peering from behind a cur
tain, she saw the look with which he said them ;
saw also the expression on Eamona's face as she
listened.

Margarita clenched her hands. The seed had blos
somed. Earnona had an enemy.

RAMON A. 115

" Oh, but I am glad Father Salvicrderra has gone !"
said the girl, bitterly. " He 'd have had this out of
me, spite of everything. I have n't got to confess
for a year, maybe ; and much can happen in that
time."

Much, indeed !

vm.

'Ij \ELIPE gained but slowly. The relapse was
JD indeed, as Father Salvierderra had said, worse
than the original attack. Day after day he lay with
little apparent change ; no pain, but a weakness so
great that it was almost harder to bear than sharp
suffering would have been. Nearly every day Ales-
sandro was sent for to play or sing to him. It seemed
to be the only thing that roused him from his half
lethargic state. Sometimes he would talk with
Alessandro on matters relative to the estate, and show
for a few moments something like his old animation ;
but he was soon tired, and would close his eyes, say
ing : " I will speak with you again about this, Ales
sandro ; I am going to sleep now. Sing."

The Senora, seeing Felipe's enjoyment of Alessan*
dro's presence, soon came to have a warm feeling
towards him herself; moreover, she greatly liked his
quiet reticence. There was hardly a surer road to the
Senora's favor, for man or woman, than to be chary of
speech and reserved in demeanor. She had an in
stinct of kinship to all that was silent, self-contained,
mysterious, in human nature. The more she observed
Alessandro, the more she trusted and approved him.
Luckily for Juan Can, he did not know how matters
were working in his mistress's mind. If he had, he
would have been in a fever of apprehension, and would
have got at swords' points with Alessandro imme
diately. On the contrary, all unaware of the real
situation of affairs, and never quite sure that the
Mexican he dreaded might not any day hear of his

RAMON A. 117

misfortune, and appear, asking for the place, he took
every opportunity to praise Alessandro to the Senora.
She never visited his bedside that he had not
something to say in favor of the lad, as he called
him.

" Truly, Senora," he said again and again, " I do
marvel where the lad got so much knowledge, at his age.
He is like an old hand at the sheep business. He
knows more than any shepherd I have, — a deal more ;
and it is not only of sheep. He has had experience,
too, in the handling of cattle. Juan Jose has been
beholden to him more than once, already, for a remedy
of which he knew not. And such modesty, withal. I
knew not that there were such Indians ; surely there
cannot be many such."

" No, I fancy not," the Senora would reply, absently.
" His father is a man of intelligence, and has trained
his son well."

" There is nothing he is not ready to do," continued
Alessandro's eulogist. "He is as handy with tools
as if he had been 'prenticed to a carpenter. He has
made me a new splint for my leg, which was a
relief like salve to a wound, so much easier was it
than before. He is a good lad, — a good lad."

None of these sayings of Juan's were thrown away
on the Senora. More and more closely she watched
Alessandro; and the very thing which Juan had feared,
and which he had thought to avert by having Ales
sandro his temporary substitute, was slowly coming to
pass. The idea was working in the Senora's mind, that
she might do a worse thing than engage this young,
strong, active, willing man to remain permanently in
her employ. The possibility of an Indian's being so
born and placed that he would hesitate about becom
ing permanently a servant even of the Senora Moreno,
did not occur to her. However, she would do nothing
hastily. There would be plenty of time before Juan

118 RAMONA.

Can's leg was well. She would study the young man
more. In the mean time, she would cause Felipe to
think of the idea, and propose it.

So one day she said to Felipe : " What a voice that
Alessandro has, Felipe. We shall miss his music
sorely when he goes, shall we not ? "

" He 's not going ! " exclaimed Felipe, startled.

" Oh, no, no ; not at present. He agreed to stay till
Juan Can was about again ; but that will be not more
than six weeks now, or eight, I suppose. You for
get how time has flown while you have been lying
here ill, my son."

" True, true ! " said Felipe. " Is it really a month
already ? " and he sighed.

" Juan Can tells me that the lad has a marvellous
knowledge for one of his years," continued the Senora.
" He says he is as skilled with cattle as with sheep ;
knows more than any shepherd we have on the place.
He seems wonderfully quiet and well-mannered. I
never saw an Indian who had such behavior."

" Old Pablo is just like him," said Felipe. " It
was natural enough, living so long with Father Peyri.
And I Ve seen other Indians, too, with a good deal
the same manner as Alessandro. It 's born in
them."

" I can 't bear the idea of Alessandro's going away.
But by that time you will be well and strong," said
the Senora ; " you would not miss him then, would
you?"

" Yes, I would, too ! " said Felipe, pettishly. He
was still weak enough to be childish. " I like him
about me. He 's worth a dozen times as much as any
man we Ve got. But I don't suppose money could
hire him to stay on any ranch."

" Were you thinking of hiring him permanently ? "
asked the Senora, in a surprised tone. "I don't
doubt you could do so if you wished. They are all

RAMON A. 119

poor, I suppose ; he would not work with the shearers
if he were not poor."

" Oh, it is n't that," said Felipe, impatiently. " You
can't understand, because you 've never been among
them. But they are just as proud as we are. Some
of them, I mean ; such men as old Pablo. They
shear sheep for money just as I sell wool, for money.
There is n't so much difference. Alessandro's men in
the band obey him, and all the men in the village
obey Pablo, just as implicitly as my men here obey
me. Faith, much more so ! " added Felipe, laughing.
"You can't understand it, mother, but it's so. I
am not at all sure I could offer Alessandro Assis
money enough to tempt him to stay here as my
servant."

The Senora's nostrils dilated in scorn. " No, I do
not understand it." she said. " Most certainly I do
not understand it. Of what is it that these noble
lords of villages are so proud ? their ancestors, —
naked savages less than a hundred years ago ? Naked
savages they themselves too, to-day, if we had not
come here to teach and civilize them. The race was
never meant for anything but servants. That was
all the Fathers ever expected to make of them, —
good, faithful Catholics, and contented laborers in the
fields. Of course there are always exceptional in
stances, and I think, myself, Alessandro is one. I
don't believe, however, he is so exceptional, but that
if you were to offer him, for instance, the same wages
you pay Juan Can, he would jump at the chance of
staying on the place."

, "Well, I shall think about it," said Felipe. "I 'd
like nothing better than to have him here always.
He 's a fellow I heartily like. I '11 think about it."

Which was all the Senora wanted done at present.

Ramona had chanced to come in as this conversa
tion was going on. Hearing Alessandro's name she

120 RAMON A.

seated herself at the window, looking out, but listen
ing intently. The month had done much for Ales-
sandro with Eamona, though neither Alessandro nor
Eamona knew it. It had done this much, — that
Eamona knew always when Alessandro was near,
that she trusted him, and that she had ceased to
think of hirh as an Indian any more than when she
thought of Felipe, she thought of him as a Mexican.
Moreover, seeing the two men frequently together, she
had admitted to herself, as Margarita had done before
her, that Alessandro was far the handsomer man of the
two. This Eamona did not like to admit, but she
could not help it.

" I wish Felipe were as tall and strong as Alessan
dro," she said to herself many a time. " I do not see
why he- could not have been. I wonder if the Senora
sees how much handsomer Alessandro is."

When Felipe said that he did not believe he could
offer Alessandro Assis money enough to tempt him
to stay on the place, Eamona opened her lips sud
denly, as if to speak, then changed her mind, and re
mained silent. She had sometimes displeased the
Senora by taking part in conversations between her
and her son.

Felipe saw the motion, but he also thought it wiser
to wait till after his mother had left the room, before
he asked Eamoua what she was on the point of say
ing. As soon as the Senora went out, he 'said,
" What was it, Eamona, you were going to say just
now ? "

Eamona colored. She had decided not to say it.

" Tell me, Eamona," persisted Felipe. " You were
going to say something about Alessandro's staying ;
I know you were."

Eamona did not answer. For the first time in her
life she found herself embarrassed before Felipe.

" Don't you like Alessandro ? " said Felipe.

RAMON A. 121

" Oh, yes ! " replied Ramona, with instant eagerness.
" It was not that at all. I like him very much." But
then she stopped.

" Well, what is it, then ? Have you heard any
thing on the place about his staying ? "

" Oh, no, no ; not a word ! " said Ramona. " Every
body understands that he is here only till Juan Can
gets well. But you said you did not believe you
could offer him money enough to tempt him to stay."

" Well," said Felipe, inquiringly, " I do not. Do
you ? "

" I think he would like to stay," said Ramona, hesi
tatingly. " That was what I was going to say."

" What makes you think so ? " asked Felipe.

" I don't know," Ramona said, still more hesitat
ingly. Now that she had said it, she was sorry. Felipe
looked curiously at her. Hesitancy like this, doubts,
uncertainty as to her impressions, were not character
istic of Ramoua. A flitting something which was far
from being suspicion or jealousy, and yet was of kin
to them both, went through Felipe's mind, — went
through so swiftly that he was scarce conscious of it ;
if he had been, he would have scorned himself. Jealous
of an Indian sheep-shearer? Impossible! Neverthe
less, the flitting something left a trace, and prevented
Felipe from forgetting the trivial incident ; and after
this, it was certain that Felipe wTould observe Ramona
more closely than he had done ; would weigh her
words and actions ; and if she should seem by a shade
altered in either, would watch still more closely.
Meshes were closing around Ramona. Three watch
ers of her every look and act, — Alessandro in pure
love, Margarita in jealous hate, Felipe in love and
perplexity. Only the Seiiora observed her not. If
she had, matters might have turned out very differ
ently ; for the Senora was clear-sighted, rarely mis
taken in her reading of people's motives, never long

122 RAMONA.

deceived ; but her observing and discriminating pow
ers were not in focus, so far as Eamona was concerned.
The girl was curiously outside of the Senora's real
life. Shelter, food, clothes, all external needs, in so
far as her means allowed, the Senora would, with
out fail, provide for the child her sister had left in
her hands as a trust ; but a personal relation with her,
a mother's affection, or even interest and acquain
tance, no. The Senora had not that to give. And
if she had it not, was she to blame ? What could she
do ? Years ago Father Salvierderra had left off remon
strating with her on this point. " Is there more I
should do for the child ? Do you see aught lacking,
aught amiss ? " the Senora would ask, conscientiously,
but with pride. And the Father, thus inquired of,
could not point out a duty which had been neglected.

" You do not love her, my daughter," he said.

" No." Senora Moreno's truthfulness was of the
adamantine order. " No, I do not. I cannot. One
cannot love by act of will."

" That is true," the Father would say sadly ; " but
affection may be cultivated."

"Yes, if it exists," was the Senora's constant an
swer. " But in this case it does not exist. I shall
never love Eamona. Only at your command, and
to save my sister a sorrow, I took her. I will nevei
fail in my duty to her."

It was of no use. As well say to the mountain,
" Be cast into the sea," as try to turn the Senora's heart
in any direction whither it did not of itself tend.
All that Father Salvierderra could do, was to love
Kamona the more himself, which he did heartily,
and more and more each year, and small marvel at it ;
for a gentler, sweeter maiden never drew breath than
this same Eamona, who had been all these years, save
for Felipe, lonely in the Senora Moreno's house.

Three watchers of Eamona now. If there had been

RAM ON A. 123

a fourth, and that fourth herself, matters might have
turned out differently. But how should Kaniona watch ?
How should Bamona know ? Except for her one
year at school with the nuns, she had never been
away from the Seiiora's house. Felipe was the only
young man she had known, — Felipe, her brother since
she was five years old.

There were no gayeties in the Senora Moreno's
home. Felipe, when he needed them, went one day's
journey, or two, or three, to get them ; went as often
as he liked. Ramona never went. How many times
she had longed to go to Santa Barbara, or to Monte
rey, or Los Angeles ; but to have asked the Senora's
permission to accompany her on some of her now in
frequent journeys to these places would have required
more courage than Eamona possessed. It was now
three years since she left the convent school, but she
was still as fresh from the hands of the nuns as on
the day when, with loving tears, they had kissed her
in farewell. The few romances and tales and bits of
verse she had read were of the most innocent and
old-fashioned kind, and left her hardly less childlike
than before. This childlikeness, combined with her
happy temperament, had kept her singularly contented
in her monotonous life. She had fed the birds, taken
care of the flowers, kept the chapel in order, helped
in light household work, embroidered, sung, and, as
the Senora eight years before had bade her do, said
her prayers and pleased Father Salvierderra.

By processes strangely unlike, she and Alessandro
had both been kept strangely free from thoughts of
love and of marriage, — he by living in the shadow,
and she by living in the sun ; his heart and thoughts
filled with perplexities and fears, hers filled by a
placid routine of light and easy tasks, and the out
door pleasures of a child.

As the days went on, and Felipe still remained

124 RAMON A.

feeble, Alessandro meditated a bold stroke. Each
time that he went to Felipe's room to sing or to play,
he felt himself oppressed by the air. An hour of it
made him uncomfortable. The room was large, and
had two windows, and the door was never shut ; yet
the air seemed to Alessaudro stifling.

" I should be as ill as the Senor Felipe, if I had to
stay in that room, and a bed is a weakening thing,
enough to pull the strongest man down," said Ales
sandro to Juan Can one day. " Do you think I should
anger them if I asked them to let me bring Senor
Felipe out to the veranda and put him on a bed of
my making ? I 'd wager my head I 'd put him on his
feet in a week."

" And if you did that, you might ask the Senora for
the half of the estate, and get it, lad," replied Juan.
Seeing the hot blood darkening in Alessandro's face
at his words, he hastened to add, " Do not be so hot-
blooded. I meant not that you would ask any reward
for doing it ; I was only thinking what joy it would
be to the Senora to see Senor Felipe on his feet again.
It has often crossed my thoughts that if he did not
get up from this sickness the Senora would not be
long behind him. It is but for him that she lives.
And who would have the estate in that case, I have
never been able to find out."

" Would it not be the Senorita ? " asked Alessaudro.

Juan Can laughed an ugly laugh. " Ha, ha ! Let
the Senora hear you say that ! " he said. " Faith, it
will be little the Senorita gets more than enough
for her bread, may be, out of the Moreno estate. Hark
ye, Alessaudro ; if you will not tell, I will tell you the
story of the Senorita. You know she is not of the
Moreno blood ; is no relation of theirs."

" Yes," said Alessandro ; " Margarita has said to me
that the Senorita liamoua was only the foster-child
of the Senora Moreno."

RAMONA. 125

"Foster-child!" repeated Juan Can, contemptuously,
" There is something to the tale I know not, nor ever
could find out ; for when I was in Monterey the
Ortegna house was shut, and I could not get speech
of any of their people. But this much I know, that it
was the Senora Ortegna that had the girl first in keep
ing; and there was a scandalous tale about her birth."

If Juan Can's eyes had not been purblind with
old age, he would have seen that in Alessandro's face
which would have made him choose his words more
carefully. But he went on : " It was after the Senora
Ortegna was buried, that our Senora returned, bring
ing this child with her ; and I do assure you, lad, I
have seen the Senora look at her many a time as if
she wished her dead. And it is a shame, for she was
always as fair and good a child as the saints ever
saw. But a stain on the blood, a stain on the blood,
lad, is a bitter thing in a house. This much I know,
her mother was an Indian. Once when I was in the
chapel, behind the big Saint Joseph there, I overheard
the Senora say as much. She was talking to Father
Salvierderra, and she said, ' If the child had only the
one blood in her veins, it would be different. I like
not these crosses with Indians.'"

If Alessandro had been civilized, he would at this
word " Indian " have bounded to his feet. Being
Alessandro, he stood if possible stiller than before,
and said in a low voice, " How know you it was the
mother that was the Indian ? "

Juan laughed again, maliciously : " Ha, it is the
Ortegna face she has ; and that Ortegna, why, lie was
the scandal byword of the whole coast. There was
not a decent woman would have spoken to him, except
for his wife's sake."

" But did you not say that it was in the Senora
Ortegna's keeping that the child was ? " asked Ales
sandro, breathing harder and faster each moment

126 RAMON A.

now ; stupid old Juan Can so absorbed in relish of
his gossip, that he noticed nothing.

" Ay, ay. So I said," he went on ; " and so it was.
There be such saints, you know ; though the Lord
knows if she had been minded to give shelter to all
her husband's bastards, she might have taken lease of
a church to hold them. But there was a story about
a man's coming with this infant and leaving it in the
Sefiora's room ; and she, poor lady, never having had
a child of her own, did warm to it at first sight, and
kept it with her to the last ; and I wager me, a hard
time she had to get our Senora to take the child when
she died ; except that it was to spite Ortegna, I think
our Senora would as soon the child had been dead."

"Has she not treated her kindly ?" asked Alessandro,
in a husky voice.

Juan Can's pride resented this question. " Do you
suppose the Senora Moreno would do an unkindness
to one under her roof ? " he asked loftily. " The
Senorita has been always, in all things, like Serior
Felipe himself. It was so that she promised the
Senora Ortegna, I have heard."

" Does the Senorita know all this ? " asked Ales
sandro.

Juan Can crossed himself. " Saints save us, no ! "
he exclaimed. " I '11 not forget, to my longest day,
what it cost me, once I spoke in her hearing, when
she was yet small. I did not know she heard ; but
she went to the Senora, asking who was her mother.
And she said I had said her mother was no good,
which in faith I did, and no wonder. And the Senora
came to me, and said she, ' Juan Canito, you have
been a long time in our house ; but if ever I hear of
your mentioning aught concerning the Senorita Ka-
mona, on this estate or anywhere else in the country,
that day you leave my service ! ' — And you'd not do
me the ill-turn to speak of it, Alessandro, now ? " said

RAMONA. 127

the old man, anxiously. " My tongue runs away with
me, lying here on this cursed bed, with nothing to
do, — an active man like me."

" No, I '11 not speak of it, you may be assured,"
said Alessandro, walking away slowly.

"Here ! Here ! " called Juan. " What about that
plan you had for making a bed for Senor Felipe on
the veranda ? Was it of raw-hide you meant ? "

" Ah, I had forgotten," said Alessaudro, returning.
"Yes, that was it. There is great virtue in a raw
hide, tight stretched ; my father says that it is the
only bed the Fathers would ever sleep on, in the
Mission days. I myself like the ground even better ;
but my father sleeps always on the raw-hide. He
says it keeps him well. Do you think I might speak
of it to the Senora ? "

" Speak of it to Senor Felipe himself," said Juari.
" It will be as he says. He rules this place now, from
beginning to end ; and it is but yesterday I held him
on my knee. It is soon that the old are pushed to
the wall, Alessandro."

" Nay, Juan Canito," replied Alessandro, kindly.
" It is not so. My father is many years older than
you are, and he rules our people to-day as firmly as
ever. I myself obey him, as if I were a lad still."

" What else, then, but a lad do you call yourself, I
wonder," thought Juan ; but he answered, " It is not
so with us. The old are not held in such reverence."

" That is not well," replied Alessandro. " We have
been taught differently. There is an old man in our
village who is many, many years older than my
father. He helped to carry the mortar at the building
of the San Diego Mission, I do not know how many
years ago. He is long past a hundred years of age.
He is blind and childish, and cannot walk ; but he is
cared for by every one. And we bring him in our
arms to every council, and set him by my father's

123 RAMONA.

side. He talks very foolishly sometimes, but my
father will not let him be interrupted. -He says it
brings bad luck to affront the aged. We will pres
ently be aged ourselves."

" Ay, ay ! " said Juan, sadly. " We must all come
to it. It is beginning to look not so far off to me ! "

Alessandro stared, no less astonished at Juan Can's
unconscious revelation of his standard of measure
ment' of years than Juan had been at his. " Faith,
old man, what name dost give to yourself to-day • "
he thought ; but went on with the topic of the raw
hide bed. " I may not so soon get speech with
Senor Felipe," he said. " It is usually when he is
sleepy that I go to play for him or to sing. But it
makes my heart heavy to see him thus languishing
day by day, and all for lack of the air and the sun,
I do believe, indeed, Juan."

" Ask the Senorita, then," said Juan. " She has his
ear at all times."

Alessandro made no answer. Why was it that it did
not please him, — this suggestion of speaking to lla-
iriona of his plan for Felipe's welfare ? He could not
have told ; but he did not wish to speak of it to her.

" I will speak to the Senora," he said ; and as luck
would have it, at that moment the Senora stood in
the doorway, come to ask after Juan Can's health.

The suggestion of the raw-hide bed struck her favor
ably. She herself had, in her youth, heard much of
their virtues, and slept on them. "Yes," she said,
" they are good. We will try it. It was only yester
day that Senor Felipe was complaining of the bed he
lies on ; and when he was well, he thought nothing
could be so good ; he brought it here, at a great price,
for me, but I could not lie on it. It seemed as if it
would throw me off as soon as I lay down ; it is a
cheating device, like all these innovations the Ameri
cans have brought into the country. But Senor

RAM ON A. 129

Felipe till now thought it a luxury ; now he tosses
ou it, and says it is throwing him all the time."

Alessandro smiled, in spite of his reverence for the
Sefiora. " I once lay down on one myself, Senora," he
said, " and that was what I said to my father. It was
like a wild horse under me, making himself ready to
buck. I thought perhaps the invention was of the
saints, that men should not sleep too long."

" There is a pile of raw-hides," said Juan, " well
cured, but not too stiff; Juan Jose was to have sent
them off to-day to be sold ; one of those will be just
right. It must not be too dry."

" The fresher the better," said Alessandro, " so it
have no dampness. Shall I make the bed, Senora ? "
he asked, " and will the Senora permit that I make it
on the veranda ? I was just asking Juan Can if he
thought I might be so bold as to ask you to let me
bring Senor Felipe into the outer air. With us, it is
thought death to be shut up in walls, as he has been
so long. Not till we are sure to die, do we go into
the dark like that."

The Senora hesitated. She did not share Alessan-
dro's prejudice in favor of fresh air.

" Night and day both ? " she said. " Surely it is
not well to sleep out in the night ? "

" That is the best of all, Senora," replied Alessan
dro, earnestly. " I beg the Senora to try it. If Senor
Felipe have not mended greatly after the first night
he have so slept, then Alessandro will be a liar."

" No, only mistaken," said the Senora, gently. She
felt herself greatly drawn to this young man by his
devotion, as she thought, to Felipe. " When I die
and leave Felipe here," she had more than once said
to herself, " it would be a great good to him to have
such a servant as this on the place."

"Very well, Alessandro," she replied; "make the
bed, and we will try it at once."

9

130 RAMON A.

This was early in the forenoon. The sun was still
high in the west, when Rainoua, sitting as usual in
the veranda, at her embroidery, saw Alessandro coni-
in<r, followed by two men, bearing the raw-hide bed.

O7 v .

" What can that be ? ' she said. " Some new in
vention of Alessandro's, but for what ? "

" A bed for the Senor Felipe, Senorita," said Ales
sandro, running lightly up the steps. " The Sefiora
has given permission to place it here on the veranda,
and Senor Felipe is to lie here day and night ; and
it will be a marvel in your eyes how he will gain
strength. It is the close room which is keeping him
weak now ; he has no illness."

" I believe that is the truth, Alessandro," exclaimed
Ramona ; " I have been thinking the same thing. My
head aches after I am in that room but an hour, and
when I come here I am well. But the nights too,
Alessandro ? Is it riot harmful to sleep out in the
night air ? "

" Why, Senorita ? " asked Alessandro, simply.

And Ramona had no answer, except, " I do not
know ; I have always heard so."

" My people do not think so," replied Alessandro ;
" unless it is cold, we like it better. It is good,
Senorita, to look up at the sky in the night."

" I should think it would be," cried Ramona. " I
never thought of it. I should like to do it."

Alessandro was busy, with his face bent down,
arranging the bedstead in a sheltered corner of the
veranda. If his face had been lifted, Ramona would
have seen a look on it that would have startled her
more than the one she had surprised a few days pre
vious, after the incident with Margarita. All day
there had been coming and going in Alessandro's
brain a confused procession of thoughts, vague yet
intense. Put in words, they would have been found
to be little more than ringing changes on this idea :

RAMONA. 131

"The Scflorita Ramona has Indian blood in her
veins. The Senorita Ramona is alone. The Senora
loves her not. Indian blood ! Indian blood ! " These,
or something like them, would have been the words ;
but Alessandro did not put them in words. He only
worked away on the rough posts for Seiior Felipe's
bedstead, hammered, fitted, stretched the raw-hide
and made it tight and firm, driving every nail, strik
ing every blow, with a bounding sense of exultant
strength, as if there were suddenly all around him
a new heavens and a new earth.

Now, when he heard Earnona say suddenly in her
girlish, eager tone, " It must be ; I never thought
of it ; I should like to try it," these vague confused
thoughts of the day, and the day's bounding sense of
exultant strength, combined in a quick vision before
Alessandro's eyes, — a vision of starry skies overhead,
Ramona and himself together, looking up to them.
But when he raised his head, all he said was, " There,
Senorita ! That is all firm, now. If Seiior Felipe will
let me lay him on this bed, he will sleep as he has
not slept since he fell ill."

Ramona ran eagerly into Felipe's room. " The bed
is all ready on the veranda," she exclaimed. " Shall
Alessandro come in and carry you out ? "

Felipe looked up, startled. The Senora turned on
Ramoua that expression of gentle, resigned displeas
ure, which always hurt the girl's sensitive nature far
worse than anger. " I had not spoken to Felipe yet
of the change, Ramona," she said. " I supposed that
Alessandro would have informed me when the bed
was ready ; I am sorry you came in so suddenly.
Felipe is still very weak, you see."

" What is it ? What is it ? " exclaimed Felipe, im
patiently.

As soon as it was explained to him, he was like a
child in his haste to be moved.

132 RAM ON A.

" That 's just what T needed ! " he exclaimed. " This
cursed bed racks every bone in my body, and I have
longed for the sun more than ever a thirsty man
longed for water. Bless you, Alessandro," he went'
on, seeing Alessandro in the doorway. " Come here,
and take me up in those long arms of yours, and
carry me quick. Already I feel myself better."

Alessandro lifted him as if he were a baby ; in
deed, it was but a light burden now, Felipe's wasted
body, for a man much less strong than Alessaudro to
lift.

Eamona, chilled and hurt, ran in advance, carrying
pillows and blankets. As she began to arrange them
on the couch, the Senora took them from her hands,
saying, " I will arrange them myself ; " and waved
Eamona away.

It was a little thing. Eamona was well used to
such. Ordinarily it would have given her no pain
she could not conceal. But the girl's nerves were
not now in equilibrium. She had had hard work to
keep back her tears at the first rebuff. This second
was too much. She turned, arid walked swiftly away,
the tears rolling down her cheeks.

Alessandro saw it ; Felipe saw it.

To Felipe the sight was, though painful, not a sur
prise. He knew but too well how often his mother
hurt Eamona. All he thought now, in his weakness,
was, " Alas ! what a pity my mother does not love
Eamona ! "

To Alessandro the sight was the one drop too
much in the cup. As he stooped to lay Felipe on
the bed, he trembled so that Felipe looked up, half
afraid.

"Am I still so heavy, Alessandro ?" he said, smiling.

"It is not your weight, Sefior Felipe," answered
Alessandro, off guard, still trembling, his eyes follow
ing Eamona.

RAMONA. 133

Felipe saw. In the next second, the eyes of the
two young men met. Alessandro's fell before Felipe's.
Felipe gazed on, steadily, at Alessandro.

"Ah!" he said; and as he said it, he closed his eyes,
and let his head sink back into the pillow.

" Is that comfortable ? Is that right ? " asked the
Senora, who had seen nothing.

" The first comfortable moment I have had, mother,"
said Felipe. " Stay, Alessandro. I want to speak to
you as soon as I am rested. This move has shaken
me up a good deal. Wait."

" Yes, Seiior," replied Alessandro, and seated him
self on the veranda steps.

" If you are to stay, Alessandro," said the Senora,
" I will go and look after some matters that need my
attention. I feel always at ease about Senor Felipe
when you are with him. You will stay till I come
back?"

"Yes, Senora," said Alessandro, in a tone cold as
the Senora's own had been to Eamona. He was no
longer in heart the Senora Moreno's servant. In
fact, he was at that very moment revolving con
fusedly in his mind whether there could be any
possibility of his getting away before the expiration
of the time for which he had agreed to stay.

It was a long time before Felipe opened his eyes.
Alessandro thought he was asleep.

At last Felipe spoke. He had been watching Ales
sandro's face for some minutes. " Alessandro," he
said.

Alessandro sprang to his feet, and walked swiftly
to the bedside. He did not know what the next word
might be. He felt that the Senor Felipe had seen
straight into his heart in that one moment's look, and
Alessandro was prepared for anything.

" Alessandro," said Felipe, " my mother has been
speaking to me about your remaining with us perma-

134 RAM ON A.

nently. Juan Can is now very old, and after this
accident will go on crutches the rest of his days, poor
soul ! We are in great need of some man who under
stands sheep, and the care of the place generally."

As he spoke, he watched Alessandro's face closely.
Swift changing expressions passed over it. Surprise
predominated. Felipe misunderstood the surprise.
"I knew you would be surprised," he said. "I told
my mother that you would not think of it ; that you
had stayed now only because we were in trouble."

Alessandro bowed his head gratefully. This recog
nition from Felipe gave him pleasure.

" Yes, Senor," he said, " that was it. I told Father
Salvierderra it was not for the wages. But my father
and I have need of all the money we can earn. Our
people are very poor, Senor. I do not know whether
my father would think I ought to take the place you
offer me, or not, Senor. It would be as he said. I
will ask him."

" Then you would be willing to take it ? " asked
Felipe.

" Yes, Senor, if my father wished me to take it,"
replied Alessandro, looking steadily and gravely at
Felipe ; adding, after a second's pause, "if you are
sure that you desire it, Senor Felipe, it would be a
pleasure to me to be of help to you."

And yet it was only a few moments ago that Ales
sandro had been turning over in his mind the possi
bility of leaving the Senora Moreno's service imme
diately. This change had not been a caprice, not
been an impulse of passionate desire to remain near
liamona; it had come from a sudden consciousness
that the Senor Felipe would be his friend. And
Alessandro was not mistaken.

IX.

TTTHEN the Senora came back to the veranda,
VV she found Felipe asleep, Alessandro standing
at the foot of the bed, with his arms crossed on
his breast, watching him. As the Senora drew near,
Alessandro felt again the same sense of dawning
hatred which had seized him at her harsh speech to
Eamona. He lowered his eyes, and waited to be
dismissed.

" You can go now, Alessandro," said the Senora.
" I will sit here. You are quite sure that it will be
safe for Sefior Felipe to sleep here all night ? "

" It will cure him before many nights," replied
Alessandro, still without raising his eyes, and turning
to go.

" Stay," said the Senora. Alessandro paused. " It
will not do for him to be alone here in the night,
Alessandro."

Alessandro had thought of this, and had remem
bered that if he lay on the veranda floor by Senor
Felipe's side, he would also lie under the Senorita's
window.

" No, Senora." he replied. " I will lie here by his
side. That was what I had thought, if the Senora is
willing."

" Thank you, Alessandro," said the Senora, in a
tone which would have surprised poor Ranioua, still
sitting alone in her room, with sad eyes. She did not
know the Senora could speak thus sweetly to any
one but Felipe. " Thank you ! You are kind. I will
have a bed made for you."

1C6 RAMON A.

" Oil, no ! " cried Alessandro ; " if the Sefiora will
excuse me, I could not lie on a bed. A raw-hide like
Sefior Felipe's, and my blanket, are all I want. I
could not lie on any bed."

" To be sure," thought the Senora ; " what was I
thinking of ! How the boy makes one forget he is an
Indian ! But the floor is harder than the ground,
Alessandro," she said kindly.

" No, Senora," he said, "it is all one ; and to-night
I will not sleep. I will watch Sefior Felipe, in case
there should be a wind, or he should wake and need
something."

" I will watch him myself till midnight," said the
Senora. " I should feel easier to see how he sleeps at
first."

It was the balmiest of summer nights, and as still
as if no living thing were on the earth. There was a
full moon, which shone on the garden, and on the
white front of the little chapel among the trees.
Ramona, from her window, saw Alessandro pacing up
and down the walk. She had seen him spread down
the raw-hide by Felipe's bed, and had seen the Senora
take her place in one of the big carved chairs. She
wondered if they were both going to watch ; she
wondered why the Senora would never let her sit up
and watch with Felipe.

"I am not of any use to anybody," she thought
sadly. She dared not go out and ask any questions
about the arrangements for the night. At supper the
Senora had spoken to her only in the same cold and
distant manner which always made her dumb and
afraid. She had not once seen Felipe alone during the
day. Margarita, who, in the former times, — *ih, how
far away those former times looked now ! — had been
a greater comfort to Ramona than she realized, — Mar
garita now was sulky and silent, never came into
Ramona' s presence if she could help it, and looked at

RAM ON A. 137

her sometimes with an expression which made Ramona
tremble, and say to herself, " She hates me. She has
always hated me since that morning."

It had been a long, sad day to Ramona ; and as she
sat in her window leaning her head against the sash,
and looked at Alessandro pacing up arid down, she
felt for the first time, and did not shrink from it nor
in any wise disavow or disguise it to herself, that she
was glad he loved her. More than this she did not
think; beyond this she did not go. Her mind was
not like Margarita's, full of fancies bred of freedom
in intercourse with men. But distinctly, tenderly
glad that Alessandro loved her, and distinctly, tenderly
aware how well he loved her, she was, as she sat at
her window this night, looking out into the moonlit
garden ; after she had gone to bed, she could still
hear his slow, regular steps on the garden-walk, and
the last thought she had, as she fell asleep, was that
she was glad Alessandro loved her.

The moon had been long set, and the garden, chapel-
front, trees, vines, were all wrapped in impenetrable
darkness, when Ramona awoke, sat up in her bed, and
listened. All was so still that the sound of Felipe's
low, regular breathing came in through her open win
dow. After hearkening to it for a few moments, she
rose noiselessly from her bed, and creeping to the
window parted the curtains and looked out ; noise
lessly, she thought ; but it was not noiselessly enough
to escape Alessandro's quick ear ; without a sound,
he sprang to his feet, and stood looking at Ramona's
window.

" I am here, Senorita," he whispered. " Do you
want anything ? "

" Has he slept all night like this ? " she whispered
back.

" Yes, Senorita. He has not once moved."

" How good ! " said Ramona. " How good ! "

138 RAMON A.

Then she stood still ; she wanted to speak again to
Alessandro, to hear him speak again, but she could
think of no more to say. Because she could not, she
gave a little sigh.

Alessandro took one swift step towards the window.
" May the saints bless you, Senorita," he whispered
fervently.

" Thank you, Alessandro," murmured Eamona, and
glided back to her bed, but not to sleep. It lacked
not much of dawn; as the first faint light filtered
through the darkness, Eamona heard the Senora's
window open.

" Surely she will not strike up the hymn and wake
Felipe," thought Eamona ; and she sprang again to
the window to listen. A few low words between the
Senora and Alessandro, and then the Senora's window
closed again, and all was still.

" I thought she would not have the heart to wake
him," said Eamona to herself. " The Virgin would
have had no pleasure in our song, I am sure ; but I
will say a prayer to her instead ; " and she sank on
her knees at the head of her bed, and began say
ing a whispered prayer. The footfall of a spider in
Eamona's room had not been light enough to escape
the ear of that watching lover outside. Again Ales-
sandro's tall figure arose from the floor, turning to
wards Eamona's window ; and now the darkness was
so far softened to dusk, that the outline of his form
could be seen. Eamona felt it rather than saw it,
and stopped praying. Alessandro was sure he had
heard her voice.

" Did the Senorita speak ? " he whispered, his face
close at the curtain. Eamona, startled, dropped her
rosary, which rattled as it fell on the wooden
floor.

" No, no, Alessandro," she said, " I did not speak."
And she trembled, she knew not why. The sound of

EAMONA. 130

the beads on the floor explained to Alessandro what
had been the whispered words he heard.

" She was at her prayers," he thought, ashamed and
sorry. "Forgive me," he whispered, "I thought you
called;" and he stepped back to the outer edge of
the veranda, and seated himself on the railing. He
would lie down no more. Eamona remained on her
knees, gazing at the window. Through the transpar
ent muslin curtain the dawning light came slowly,
steadily, till at last she could see Alessandro dis
tinctly. Forgetful of all else, she knelt gazing at
him. The rosary lay on the floor, forgotten. Eamona
would not finish that prayer, that day. But her
heart was full of thanksgiving and gratitude, and
the Madonna had a better prayer than any in the
book.

The sun was up, and the canaries, finches, and
linnets had made the veranda ring with joyous racket,
before Felipe opened his eyes. The Senora had come
and gone and come again, looking at him anxiously,
but he stirred not. Eamona had stolen timidly out,
glancing at Alessandro only long enough to give him
one quick smile, and bent over Felipe's bed, holding
her breath, he lay so still.

" Ought he to sleep so long ? " she whispered.

" Till the noon, it may be," answered Alessandro ;
" and when he wakes, you will see by his eye that
he is another man."

It was indeed so. When Felipe first looked about
him, he laughed outright with pure pleasure. Then
catching sight of Alessandro at the steps, he called,
in a stronger voice than had yet been heard from
him, " Alessandro, you are a famous physician. Why
could n't that fool from Ventura have known as
much ? With all his learning, he had had me in the
next world before many days, except for you. Now,
Alessaudro, breakfast ! I am hungry. I had forgot-

140 RAMONA.

ten what the thought of food was like to a hungry
stomach. And plenty ! plenty ! " he called, as Ales-
sandro ran toward the kitchen. " Bring all they
have."

When the Senora saw Felipe bolstered up in the
bed, his eye bright, his color good, his voice clear,
eating heartily like his old self, she stood like a statue
in the middle of the veranda for a moment ; then
turning to Alessandro, she said chokingly, " May
Heaven reward you!" and disappeared abruptly in her
own room. When she came out, her eyes were red.
All day she moved and spoke with a softness un
wonted, indeed inconceivable. She even spoke
kindly and without constraint to Ramona. She fell
like one brought back from the dead.

After this, a new sort of life began for them all.
Felipe's bed on the veranda was the rallying point
for everything and everybody. The servants came to
look up at him, and wish him well, from the garden-
walk below. Juan Can, when he first hobbled out
on the stout crutches Alessandro had made him of
manzanitta wood, dragged himself all the way round
the house, to have a look at Senor Felipe and a word
with him. 'The Senora sat there, in the big carved
chair, looking like a sibyl with her black silk banded
head-dress severely straight across her brow, and her
large dark eyes gazing out, past Felipe, into the far
south sky. Eamona lived there too, with her em
broidery or her book, sitting on cushions on the floor
in a corner, or at the foot of Felipe's bed, always
so placed, however, — if anybody had noticed, but
nobody did, — so placed that she could look at Felipe
without looking full at the Senora's chair, even if the
Senora were not in it.

Here also came Alessandro many times a day, —
sometimes sent for, sometimes of his own accord.
He was freely welcome. When he played or sang,

RAMON A. 1-41

he sat on the upper step of the stairs leading down
to the garden. He also had a secret, which he
thought all his own, in regard to the positions he
chose. He sat always, when lianioua was there, in the
spot which best commanded a view of her face. The
secret was not all his own. Felipe knew it. Noth
ing was escaping Felipe in these days. A bomb
shell exploding at their feet would not have more
astonished the different members of this circle,
the Senora, Itamona, Alessandro, than it would to
have been made suddenly aware of the thoughts
which were going on in Felipe's mind now, from
day to day, as he lay there placidly looking at
them all.

It is probable that if Felipe had been in full health
and strength when the revelation suddenly came to
him that Alessandro loved Ramona, and that Ramona
might love Alessandro, he would have been instantly
filled with jealous antagonism. But at the time
when this revelation came, he was prostrate, feeble,
thinking many times a day that he must soon die ;
it did not seem to Felipe that a man could be so
weak as he was, and ever again be strong and well.
Side by side with these forebodings of his own death.

«/ o

always came the thought of Ramona. What would
become of her, if he were gone ? Only too well he
knew that the girl's heart would be broken ; that she
could not live on alone with his mother. Felipe
adored his mother; but he understood her feeling
about Ramona.

With his feebleness had also come to Felipe, as is
often the case in long illnesses, a greater clearness of
perception. Eamona had ceased to puzzle him. He
no longer asked himself what her long, steady look
into his eyes meant. He knew. He saw it meant
that as a sister she loved him, had always loved him,
and could love him in no other way. He wondered

142 RAM ON A.

a little at himself that this gave him no more pain ;
only a, sort of sweet, mournful tenderness towards
her. It must be because he was so soon going out
of the world, he thought. Presently he began to be
aware that a new quality was coming into his love
for her. He himself was returning to the brother
love which he had had for her when they were
children together, and in which he had felt no change
until he became a man and Ramona a woman.
It was strange what a peace fell upon Felipe when
this was finally clear and settled in his mind. No
doubt lie had had more misgiving and fear about his
mother in the matter than he had ever admitted to
himself ; perhaps also the consciousness of Ramona's
unfortunate birth had rankled at times ; but all this
was past now. Ramona was his sister. He was her
brother. What course should he pursue in the crisis
which he saw drawing near ? How could he best
help Ramona ? What would be best for both her and
Alessandro ? Long before the thought of any possible
union between himself and Ramona had entered into
Alessandro's mind, still longer before it had entered into
Ramona's to think of Alessandro as a husband, Felipe
had spent hours in forecasting, plotting, and planning
for them. For the first time in his life he felt him
self in the dark as to his mother's probable action.
That any concern as to Ramona's personal happiness or
welfare would influence her, he knew better than to
think for a moment. So far as that was concerned,
Ramona might wander out the next hour, wife of a
homeless beggar, and his mother would feel no regret.
But Ramona had been the adopted daughter of the
Senora Ortegna, bore the Ortegua name, and had
lived as foster-child in the house of the Morenos.
Would the Senora permit such a one to marry an
Indian ?

Felipe doubted. The longer he thought, the more

RAMONA. 143

lie doubted. The more he watched, tlie more he saw
that the question might soon have to be decided.
Any hour might precipitate it. He made plan after
plan for forestalling trouble, for preparing his mother ;
but Felipe was by nature indolent, and now he was,
in addition, feeble. Day after day slipped by. It
was exceedingly pleasant on the veranda. Ramona
was usually with him ; his mother was gentler, less
sad, than he had ever seen her. Alessandro was al
ways at hand, ready for any service, — in the field, in
the house, — his music a delight, his strength and
fidelity a repose, his personal presence always agree
able. " If only my mother could think it," reflected
Felipe, " it would be the best thing, all round, to have
Alessandro stay here as overseer of the place, and
then they might be married. Perhaps before the sum
mer is over she will come to see it so."

And the delicious, languid, semi-tropic summer came
hovering over the valley. The apricots turned golden,
the peaches glowed, the grapes filled and hardened,
like opaque emeralds hung thick under the canopied
vines. The garden was a shade brown, and the roses
had all fallen ; but there were lilies, and orange-blos
soms, and poppies, and carnations, and geraniums in
the pots, and musk, — oh, yes, ever and always musk.
It was like a,n enchanter's spell, the knack the Senora
had of forever keeping relays of musk to bloom all
the year; and it was still more like an enchanter's
spell, that Felipe would never confess that he hated
it. But the bees liked it, and the humming-birds, — •
the butterflies also ; and the air was full of them.'
The veranda \vas a quieter place now as the season's
noon grew near. The linnets were all nesting, and
the finches and the canaries too ; and the Senora spent
hours, every day, tirelessly feeding the mothers. The
vines had all grown and spread out to their thickest ;
no need any longer of the gay blanket Alessandro

144 RAM ON A.

had pinned up that first morning to keep the sun off
Felipe's head.

What was the odds between a to-day and a to
morrow in such a spot as this ? " To-morrow;' said
Felipe, " I will speak to my mother," and " to-mor
row," and " to-morrow ; " but he did not.

There was one close observer of these pleasant
veranda days that Felipe knew nothing about.
That was Margarita. As the girl came and went
about her household tasks, she was always on the
watch for Alessandro, on the watch for Ramoua.
She was biding her time. Just what shape her re
venge was going to take, she did not know. It was
no use plotting. It must be as it fell out ; but that
the hour and the way for her revenge would come,
she never doubted.

When she saw the group on the veranda, as she
often did, all listening to Alessandro's violin, or to
his singing, Alessandro himself now at his ease and
free in the circle, as if he had been there always, her
anger was almost beyond bounds.

" Oh, ho ! like a member of the family ; quite so ! "
she sneered. " It is new times when a head shepherd
spends his time with the ladies of the house, and sits
in their presence like a guest who is invited ! We
shall see ; we shall see what comes of all .this ! " And
she knew not which she hated the more of the two,
Alessandro or Ramona.

Since the day of the scene at the artichoke-field
she had never spoken to Alessandro, and had avoided,
',o fai as was possible, seeing him. At first Alessan
dro was sorry for this, and tried to be friendly with
her. As soon as he felt assured that the incident had
not hurt him at all in the esteem of Ramona, he began
to be sorry for Margarita. " A man should not be
rude to any maiden," he thought ; and he hated to re
member how he had pushed Margarita from him, and

* RAMON A. 145

snatched his hand away, when he had in the outset
made no objection to her taking it. But Margarita's
resentment was not to be appeased. She understood
only too clearly how little Alessandro's gentle ad
vances meant, and she would none of them. " Let him
go to his Sefiorita," she said bitterly, mocking the
reverential tone in which she had overheard him pro
nounce the word. " She is fond enough of him, if
only the fool had eyes to see it. She 11 be ready to
throw herself at his head before long, if this kind of
thing keeps up. ' It is not well to speak thus freely
of young men, Margarita ! ' Ha, ha ! Little 1
thought that day which way the wind set in my
mistress's temper ! I '11 wager she reproves me no
more, under this roof or any other ! Curse her ! What
did she want of Alessandro, except to turn his head,
and then bid him go his way ! "

To do Margarita justice, she never once dreamed
of the possibility of Kamoiia's wedding Alessandro.
A clandestine affair, an intrigue of more or less in
tensity, such as she herself might have carried on
with any one of the shepherds, — this was the utmost
stretch of Margarita's angry imaginations in regard
to her young mistress's liking for Alessandro. There
was not, in her way of looking at things, any impos
sibility of such a thing as that. But marriage ! It
might be questioned whether that idea would have
been any more startling to the Senora herself than to
Margarita.

Little had passed between Alessandro and Eamona
which Margarita did not know. The girl was always
like a sprite, — here, there, everywhere, in an hour,
and with eyes which, as her mother often told her,
saw on all sides of her head. Now, fired by her new
purpose, new passion, she moved swifter than ever,
and saw and heard even more. There were few hours
of any day when she did not know to a certainty

10

146 RAMGNA.

where both Alessandro and Eamona were ; and there
had been few meetings between them which she had
not either seen or surmised.

In the simple life of such a household as the
Seiiora's, it was not strange that this was possible ;
nevertheless, it argued and involved untiring vigi
lance on Margarita's part. Even Felipe, who thought
himself, from his vantage-post of observation on tho
veranda, and from his familiar relation with Eamona,
well informed of most that happened, would have
been astonished to hear all that Margarita could have
told him. In the first days Eamona herself had
guilelessly told him much, — had told him how Ales
sandro, seeing her trying to sprinkle and bathe and
keep alive the green ferns with which she had deco
rated the chapel for Father Salvierderra's coming, had
said : " Oh, Senorita, they are dead ! Do not take
trouble with them ! I will bring you fresh ones ; "
and the next morning she had found, lying at the
chapel door, a pile of such ferns as she had never
before seen ; tall ones, like ostrich-plumes, six and
eight feet high ; the feathery maiden-hair, and the
gold fern, and the silver, twice as large as she ever
had found them. The chapel was beautiful, like a
conservatory, after she had arranged them in vases
and around the high candlesticks.

It was Alessandro, too, who had picked up in the
artichoke-patch all of the last year's seed-vessels
which had not been trampled down by the cattle, and
bringing one to her, had asked shyly if she did not
think it prettier than llowers made out of paper.
His people, he said, made wreaths of them. And
so they were, more beautiful than any paper flow
ers which ever were made, — great soft round disks
of fine straight threads like silk, with a kind of
saint's halo around them of sharp, stiff points, glossy
as satin, and of a lovely creamy color. It was the

RAMONA. 147

strangest thing in the world nobody had ever noticed
them as 'they lay there on the ground. She had put a
great wreath of them around Saint Joseph's head, and
a bunch in the Madonna's hand ; and when the Senora
saw them, she exclaimed in admiration, and thought
they must have been made of silk and satin.

And Alessandro had brought her beautiful baskets,
made by the Indian women at Pala, and one which
had come from the North, from the Tulare country ;
it had gay feathers woven in with the reeds, — red and
yellow, in alternate rows, round and round. It was
like a basket made out of a bright-colored bird.

And a beautiful stone bowl Alessandro had brought
her, glossy black, that came all the way from Catalina
Island ; a friend of Alessandro's got it. For the first
few weeks it had seemed as if hardly a day passed
that there was not some new token to be chronicled
of Alessandro's thoughtfulness and good-will. Often,
too, Eamona had much to tell that Alessandro had
said, — tales of the old Mission days that he had
heard from his father ; stories of saints, and of the
early Fathers, who were more like saints than like
men, Alessandro said, — Father Junipero, who founded
the first Missions, and Father Crespi, his friend. Ales
sandro's grandfather had journeyed with Father Crespi
as his servant, and many a miracle he had with his
own eyes seen Father Crespi perform. There was a
cup out of wThich the Father always took his choco
late for breakfast, — a beautiful cup, which was carried
in a box, the only luxury the Father had ; and one
morning it was broken, and everybody was in terror
and despair. " Never mind, never mind," said the
Father ; " I will make it whole ; " and taking the two
pieces in his hands, he held them tight together, and
prayed over them, and they became one solid piece
tgain, and it was used all through the journey, just
as before.

148 RAMON A.

But now, Eamona never spoke voluntarily of Ales-
sandro. To Felipe's sometimes artfully put questions
or allusions to him, she made brief replies, and never
continued the topic ; and Felipe had observed another
thing : she now rarely looked at Alessandro. When
he was speaking to others she kept her eyes on the
ground. If he addressed her, she looked quickly up
at him, but lowered her eyes after the first glance.
Alessandro also observed this, and was glad of it. He
understood it. He knew how differently she could
look in his face in the rare moments when they were
alone together. He fondly thought he alone knew
this ; but he was mistaken. Margarita knew. She
had more than once seen it.

It had happened more than once that he had found
Eamona at the willows by the brook, and had talked
with her there. The first time it happened, it was a
chance ; after that never a chance again, for Alessan
dro went often seeking the spot, hoping to find her.
In Eamona's mind too, not avowed, but half con
sciously, there was, if not the hope of seeing him
there, at least the memory that it was there they had
met. It was a pleasant spot, — cool and shady even
at noon, and the running water always full of music.
Eamona often knelt there of a morning, washing out
a bit of lace or a handkerchief; and when Alessandro
saw her, it went hard with him to stay away. At
such moments the vision returned to him vividly of
that first night when, for the first second, seeing her
face in the sunset glow, he had thought her scarce^
mortal. It was not that he even now thought her
less a saint ; but ah, how well he knew her to be
human ! He had gone alone in the dark to this spot
many a time, and, lying on the grass, put his hands
into the running water, and played with it dreamily,
thinking, in his poetic Indian fashion, thoughts like
these : " Whither have gone the drops that passed

RAMON A. 149

beneath her hands, just here ? These drops will never
find those in the sea ; but I love this water ! "

Margarita had seen him thus lying, and without
dreaming of the refined sentiment which prompted
his action, had yet groped blindly towards it, think
ing to herself : " He hopes his Senorita will come
down to him there. A nice place it is for a lady to
meet her lover, at the washing-stones ! It will take
swifter water than any in that brook, Senorita Ea-
mona, to wash you white in the Senora's eyes, if ever
she come upon you there with the head shepherd,
making free with him, may be ! Oh, but if that could
only happen, I 'd die content ! " And the more Mar
garita watched, the more she thought it not unlikely
that it might turn out so. It was oftener at the wil
lows than anywhere else that Eamona and Alessandro
met ; and, as Margarita noticed with malicious sat
isfaction, they talked each time longer, each time
parted more lingeringly. Several times it had hap
pened to be near supper-time ; and Margarita, with
one eye on the garden-walk, had hovered restlessly
near the Senora, hoping to be ordered to call the
Senorita to supper.

" If but I could come on them of a sudden, and
say to her as she did to me, ' You are wranted in the
house ' ! Oh, but it would do my soul good ! I 'd say
it so it would sting like a lash laid on both their
faces ! It will come ! It will come ! It will be
there that she '11 be caught one of these fine times
she 's having ! I '11 wait ! It will come ! "

X.

IT came. And when it came, it fell out worse for
Eamona than Margarita's most malicious hopes
had pictured ; but Margarita had no hand in it. It
was the Senora herself.

Since Felipe had so far gained as to be able to be
dressed, sit in his chair on the veranda, and walk
about the house and garden a little, the Senora, at
ease in her mind about him, had resumed her old
habit of long, lonely walks on the place. It had been
well said by her servants, that there was not a blade
of grass on the estate that the Senora had not seen.
She knew every inctu^f her land. She had a special
purpose in walking over it now. She was carefully
examining to see whether she could afford to sell to
the Ortegas a piece of pasture-land which they greatly
desired to buy, as it joined a pasturage tract of theirs.
This bit of land lay farther from the house than the
Senora realized, and it had taken more time than she
thought it would, to go ov0r it , and it was already
sunset on this eventful day, when, hurrying home,
she turned off from the highway into the same
snort-cut path in which Father Salvierderra had met
, Eamona in the spring There was no difficulty
jnow in getting through the mustard tangle. It was
^parched and dry, and had been trampled by cattle.
The Senora walked rapidly, but it was dusky twilight
when she reached the willows ; so dusky that she saw
nothing — and she stepped so lightly on the* smooth
brown path that she made no sound — until sud
denly, face to face with a man and a woman standing

RAMONA. 151

locked in each other's arms, she halted, stepped back
a pace, gave a cry of surprise, and, in the same second,
recognized the faces of the two, who, stricken dumb,
stood apart, each gazing into her face with terror.

Strangely enough, it was Earnona who spoke first.
Terror for herself had stricken her dumb ; terror for
Alessandro gave her a voice.

"Sefiora," she began.

" Silence ! Shameful creature ! " cried the Senora.
" Do not dare to speak ! Go to your room ! "

Eamona did not move.

" As for you," the Senora continued, turning to Ales
sandro, " you," — she was about to say, " You are
discharged from my service from this hour," but recol
lecting herself in time, said, — " you will answer to
Sefior Felipe. Out of my sight!" And the Senora
Moreno actually, for once in her life beside herself
with rage, stamped her foot on the ground. " Out of
my sight ! " she repeated.

Alessandro did not stir, except to turn towards
Eamona with an inquiring look. He would run no
risk of doing what she did not wish. He had no idea
what she would think it best to do in this terrible
dilemma.

" Go, Alessandro," said Ramona, calmly, still looking
the Senora full in the eye. Alessandro obeyed ; be
fore the words had left her lips, he had walked away.

Eainoua's composure, and Alessandro's waiting for
further orders than her own before stirring from the
spot, were too much for Senora Moreno. A wrath,
such as she had not felt since she was young, took
possession of her. As Eamona opened her lips again,
saying, " Senora," the Sefiora did a shameful deed ;
she struck the girl on the mouth, a cruel blow.

"Speak not to me!" she cried again; and seizing
her by the arm, she pushed rather than dragged her
up the garden-walk.

152 RAMON A.

" Senora, you hurt my ami," said Ramona, still in
the same calm voice. " You need not hold me. I
will go with you. I am not afraid."

Was this Ramona ? The Senora, already ashamed,
let go the arm, and stared in the girl's face. Even in
the twilight she could see upon it an expression of
transcendent peace, and a resolve of which no one
would have thought it capable. " What does this
mean ? " thought the Senora, still weak, and trem
bling all over, from rage. " The hussy, the hypocrite ! "
and she seized the arm again.

This time Ramona did not remonstrate, but sub
mitted to being led like a prisoner, pushed into her
own room, the door slammed violently and locked on
the outside.

All of which Margarita saw. She had known for
an hour that Ramona and Alessandro were at the wil
lows, and she had been consumed with impatience at
the Senora's prolonged absence. More than once she
had gone to Felipe, and asked with assumed interest
if he were not hungry, and if he and the Senorita
would not have their supper.

" No, no, not till the Senora returns," Felipe had
answered. He, too, happened this time to know
where Ramona and Alessandro were. He knew also
where the Senora had gone, and that she would be late
home; but he did not know that there would be any
chance of her returning by way of the willows at
the brook ; if he had known it, he would have con
trived to summon Ramona.

When Margarita saw Ramona shoved into her
room by the pale and trembling Senora, saw the key
turned, taken out, and dropped into the Senora's
pocket, she threw her apron over her head, and ran
into the back porch. Almost a remorse seized her.
She remembered in a flash how often Ramona had
helped her in times gone by, — sheltered her from

RAM ON A. 153

the Sefiora's displeasure. She recollected the torn
altar-cloth. " Holy Virgin ! what will be done to her
now ? " she exclaimed, under her breath. Margarita
had never conceived of such an extremity as this.
Disgrace, and a sharp reprimand, and a sundering of
all relations with Alessandro, — this was all Mar
garita had meant to draw down on Ramona's head.
But the Seriora looked as if she might kill her.

" She always did hate her, in her heart," reflected
Margarita ; " she shan't starve her to death, anyhow.
1 '11 never stand by and see that. But it must have
been something shameful the Senora saw, to have
brought her to such a pass as this ; " and Marga
rita's jealousy again got the better of her sympathy.
" Good enough for her. No more than she deserved.
An honest fellow like Alessandro, that would make a
good husband for any girl!" Margarita's short-lived
remorse was over. She was an enemy again.

It was an odd thing, how identical were Margarita's
and the Senora' s view and interpretation of the situ
ation. The Senora looking at it from above, and
Margarita looking at it from below, each was sure,
and they were both equally sure, that it could be
nothing more nor less than a disgraceful intrigue.
Mistress and maid were alike incapable either of con
jecturing or of believing the truth.

As ill luck would have it, — or was it good luck ?—
Felipe also had witnessed the scene in the garden-
walk. Hearing voices, he had looked out of his win
dow, and, almost doubting the evidence of his senses
had seen his mother violently dragging Eamona by
the arm, — Ramon a pale, but strangely placid ; his
mother with rage and fury in her white face. The
sight told its own tale to Felipe. Smiting his fore
head with his hand, he groaned out : " Fool that I
was, to let her be surprised ; she has come on them
unawares : now she will never, never forgive it ! " And

154 RAMON A.

Felipe threw himself on his bed, to think what should
be done. Presently he heard his mother's voice, still
agitated, calling his name. He remained silent, sure
she would soon seek him in his room. When she
entered, and, seeing him on the bed, came swiftly to
wards him, saying, " Felipe, dear, are you ill ? " lie
replied in a feeble voice, " jSTo, mother, only tired a
little to-night ; " and as she bent over him, anxious,
alarmed, he threw his arms around her neck and
kissed her warmly. " Mother mia ! " he said passion
ately, " what should I do without you? " The caress,
the loving words, acted like oil on the troubled
waters. They restored the Senora as nothing else
could. What mattered anything, so long as she had
her adoring and adorable son ! And she would not
speak to him, now that he was so tired, of this dis
graceful and vexing matter of Alessandro. It could
wait till morning. She would send him his supper
in his room, and he would not miss Eamona, per
haps.

" I will send your supper here, Felipe," she said ;
" you must not overdo ; you have been walking too
much. Lie still." And kissing him affectionately,
she went to the dining-room, where Margarita, vainly
trying to look as if nothing had happened, was stand
ing, ready to serve supper. When the Senora en
tered, with her countenance composed, and in her
ordinary tones said, " Margarita, you can take Senor
Felipe's supper into his room ; he is lying down,
and will not get up ; he is tired," Margarita wjis
ready to doubt if she had not been in a nightmare
dream. Had she, or had she not, within the last half-
hour, seen the Senora, shaking and speechless with
rage, push the Senorita Eamona into her room, and
lock her up there ? She was so bewildered that she
stood still and gazed at the Senora, with her mouth
wide open.

RAMON A. 155

" What are you staring at, girl ? " asked the Seiiora,
so sharply that Margarita jumped.

" Oh, nothing, nothing, Serlora ! And the Senorita,
will she come to supper ? Shall I call her ? " she
said.

The Senora eyed her. Had she seen ? Could she
have seen ? The Seiiora Moreno was herself again.
So long as Bamoua was under her roof, no matter
what she herself might do or say to the girl, no ser
vant should treat her with disrespect, or know that
aught was wrong.

" The Senorita is not well," she said coldly. " She
is in her room. I myself will take her some supper
later, if she wishes it. Do not disturb her." And
the Senora returned to Felipe.

Margarita chuckled inwardly, and proceeded to
clear the table she had spread with such malicious
punctuality two short hours before. In those two
short hours how much had happened !

" Small appetite for supper will our Senorita have,
I reckon," said the bitter Margarita, " and the Senor
Alessandro also ! I 'm curious to see how he will
carry himself."

But her curiosity was not gratified. Alessandro
came not to the kitchen. The last of the herds
men had eaten and gone ; it was past nine o'clock,
and no Alessandro. Slyly Margarita ran out and
searched in some of the places where she knew he
was in the habit of going ; but Alessandro was not to
be found. Once she brushed so near his hiding-place
that he thought he was discovered, and was on the
point of speaking, but luckily held his peace, and she
passed on. Alessandro was hid behind the geranium
clump at the chapel door; sitting on the ground,
with his knees drawn up to his chin, watching Ea-
moua's window. He intended to stay there all night.
He felt that he might be needed ; if llarnona wanted

156 RAMONA.

him, she would either open her window and call, or
would come out and go down through the garden- walk
to the willows. In either case, he would see her from
the hiding-place he had chosen. He was racked by
his emotions ; mad with joy one minute, sick at heart
with misgiving the next. Eamona loved him. She
had told him so. She had said she would go away
with him and be his wife. The words had but just
passed her lips, at that dreadful moment when the
Senora appeared in their presence. As he lived tho
scene over again, he re-experienced the joy and
the terror equally.

What was not that terrible Senora capable of
doing ? Why did she look at him and at Eamona
with such loathing scorn ? Since she knew that the
Senorita was half Indian, why should she think it so
dreadful a thing for her to marry an Indian man ? 1 1
did not once enter into Alessaudro's mind, that the
Senora could have had any other thought, seeing
them as she did, in each other's arms. And again,
what had he to give to Eamona ? Could she live in a
house such as he must live in, — live as the Temecula
women lived ? No ! for her sake he must leave his
people ; must go to some town, must do — he knew
not what — something to earn more money. An
guish seized him as he pictured to himself Eamona
suffering deprivations. The more he thought of the
future in this light, the more his joy faded and his
fear grew. He had never had sufficient hope that
she could be his, to look forward thus to the prac
tical details of life ; he had only gone on loving, and
'in a vague way dreaming and hoping; and now, —
now, in a moment, all had been changed ; in a mo
ment he had spoken, and she had spoken, and such
words once spoken, there was no going back ; and he
had put his arms around her, and felt her head on his
shoulder, and kissed her ! Yes, he, Alessandro, had

RAMONA. 157

kissed the Senorita Ramona, and she had been glad
of it, and had kissed him on the lips, as no maiden
kisses a man unless she will wed with him, — him,
Alessandro ! Oh, no wonder the man's brain whirled,
as he sat there in the silent darkness, wondering,
afraid, helpless ; his love wrenched from him, in the
very instant of their first kiss, — wrenched from him,
and he himself ordered, by one who had the right
to order him, to begone ! What could an Indian do
against a Moreno !

Would Felipe help him ? Ay, there was Felipe !
That Felipe was his friend, Alessandro knew with a
knowledge as sure as the wild partridge's instinct for
the shelter of her brood ; but could Felipe move the
Senora ? Oh, that terrible Senora ! What would
become of them ?

As in the instant of drowning, men are said to
review in a second the whole course of their lives,
so in this supreme moment of Alessandro's love
there flashed through his mind vivid pictures of
every word and act of Eamona's since he first knew
her. He recollected the tone in which she had said,
and the surprise with which he heard her say it,
at the time of Felipe's fall, "You are Alessandro,
are you not ? " He heard again her soft-whispered
prayers the first night Felipe slept on the veranda.
He recalled her tender distress because the shearers
had had no dinner; the evident terribleness to her of
a person going one whole day without food. " 0 God !
will she always have food each day if she comes
with me ? " he said. And at the bare thought he was
\ready to flee away from her forever. Then lie re
called her look and her words only a few hours
ago, when he first told her he loved her ; and his
heart took courage. She had said, " I know you
love me, Alessandro, and I am glad of it," and had
lifted her eyes to his, with all the love that a woman's

158 RAMON A.

eyes can carry ; and when he threw his arms around
her, she had of her own accord come closer, and laid
one hand 011 his shoulder, and turned her face to his.
Ah, what else mattered ! There was the whole world ;
if she loved him like this, nothing could make them
wretched ; his love would be enough for her, — and
for him hers was an empire.

It was indeed true, though neither the Senora nor
Margarita would have believed it, that this had been
the first word of love ever spoken between Alessan-
dro and Eainona, the first caress ever given, the first
moment of unreserve. It had come about, as lovers'
first words, first caresses, are so apt to do, unexpect
edly, with no more premonition, at the instant, than
there is of the instant of the opening of a flower.
Alessandro had been speaking to Eamona of the
conversation Felipe had held with him in regard to
remaining on the place, and asked her if she knew of
the plan.

"Yes," she said; "I heard the Seflora talking about
it with Felipe, some days ago."

" Was she against my staying ? " asked Alessandro,
quickly.

" I think not," said Eamona, " but I am not sure.
It is riot easy to be sure what the Senora wishes, till
afterward. It was Felipe that proposed it."

This somewhat enigmatical statement as to the
difficulty of knowing the Senora's wishes was like
Greek to Alessandro' a mind.

" I do not understand, Senorita," he said. " What,
do you mean by ' afterward ' ? "

" I mean," replied Eamona, " that the Senora never
says she wishes anything ; she says she leaves every
thing to Felipe to decide, or to Father Salvierderra.
But I think it is always decided as she wishes to
have it, after all. The Senora is wonderful, Ales
sandro ; don't you think so ? "

RAMONA. 159

" She loves Sefior Felipe very much," was Alessan-
dro's evasive reply.

" Oh, yes," exclaimed Ramona. " You do not begin
to know how much. She does not love any other
human being. He takes it all. She has n't any left.
If he had died, she would have died too. That is the
reason she likes you so much ; she thinks you saved
Felipe's life. I mean, that is one reason," added
Ramona, smiling, and looking up confidingly at
Alessandro, who smiled back, not in vanity, but
honest gratitude that the Senorita was pleased to
intimate that he was not unworthy of the Sefiora's
regard.

" I do not think she likes me," he said. " I can
not tell why ; but I do not think she likes any one
in the world. She is not like any one I ever saw,
Senorita."

" No," replied Ramona, thoughtfully. " She is not.
I am, oh, so afraid of her, Alessandro ! I have always
been, ever since I was a little girl. I used to think
she hated me ; but now I think she does not care
one way or the other, if I keep out of her way."

While Ramona spoke these words, her eyes were
fixed on the running water at her feet. If she had
looked up, and seen the expression in Alessandro's
eyes as he listened, the thing which was drawing
near would have drawn near faster, would have ar
rived at that moment ; but she did not look up. She
went on, little dreaming how hard she was making it
for Alessandro.

" Many 's the time I 've come down here, at night,
to this brook, and looked at it, and wished it was a
big river, so I could throw myself in, and be carried
away out to the sea, dead. But it is a fearful sin,
Father Salvierderra says, to take one's own life ; and
always the next morning, when the sun came out,
and the birds sang, I 've been glad enough I had not

160 RAMONA.

done it. Were you ever so unhappy as that, Ales-
sandro ? "

"No, Senorita, never," replied Alessandro; "and it

is thought a great disgrace, among us, to kill one's

• self. I think I could never do it. But, oh, Senorita,

,it is a grief to think of your being unhappy. Will

you always be so ? Must you always stay here ? "

" Oh, but I am not always unhappy ! " said Eamona,
with her sunny little laugh. " Indeed, I am gener
ally very happy. Father Salvierderra says that if
one does no sin, one will be always happy, and that
it is a sin not to rejoice every hour of the day
in the sun and the sky and the work there is to
do; and there is always plenty of that." Then, her
face clouding, she continued : " I suppose I shall
always stay here. I have no other home ; you know
I was the Senora's sister's adopted child. She died
when I was little, and the Sefiora kindly took me.
Father Salvierderra says I must never forget to be
grateful to her for all she has done for me, and I try
not to."

Alessandro eyed her closely. The whole story, as
Juan Can had told it to him, of the girl's birth, was
burning in his thoughts. How he longed to cry out,
" O my loved one, they have made you homeless in
your home. They despise you. The blood of my
race is in your veins ; come to me ; come to me ! be
surrounded with love ! " But he dared not. How
could he dare ?

Some strange spell seemed to have unloosed Ea
mona' s tongue to-night. She had never before spoken
to Alessandro of her own personal history or bur
dens ; but she went on : " The worst thing is, Alessan
dro, that she will not tell me who my mother was ;
and I do not know if she is alive or not, or anything
about her. Once I asked the Senora, but she forbade
me ever to ask her again. She said she herself would

RAMONA. 161

tell me when it was proper for me to know. But slie
never has."

How the secret trembled on Alessandro's lips now.
Eamona had never seemed so near, so intimate, so
trusting. What would happen it' he were to tell her
the truth ? Would the sudden knowledge draw her
closer to him, or repel her ?

" Have you never asked her again ? " he said.

Eamona looked up astonished. " No one ever dis
obeyed the Senora," she said quickly.

" I would ! " exclaimed Alessandro.

" You may think so," said Eamona, " but you
could n't. When you tried, you would find you
could n't. I did ask Father Salvierderra once."

" What did he say ? " asked Alessandro, breathless.

" The same thing. He said I must not ask ; I
was not old enough. When the time came, I would
be told," answered liamona, sadly. " I don't see what
they can mean by the time's coming. What do you
suppose they meant ? "

" I do not know the ways of any people but my
own, Senorita," replied Alessandro. " Many things
that your people do, and still more that these Ameri
cans do, are to me so strange, I know nothing what
they mean. Perhaps they do not know who was your
mother ? "

" I am sure they do," answered Eamona, in a low
tone, as if the words were wrung from her. " But
let us talk about something else, Alessandro ; not
about sad tilings, about pleasant things. Let us talk
about your staying here."

" Would it be truly a pleasure to the Senorita
Eamona, if I stayed ? " said Alessandro.

" You know it would," answered Eamona, frankly,
yet with a tremor in her voice, which Alessandro felt.
" I do not see what we could any of us do without
you. Felipe says he shall not let you go."

1L

162 RAMON A.

Alessandro's face glowed. " It must be as my
father says, Senoritn," he said. "A messenger came
from him yesterday, and I sent him back with a letter
telling him what the Senor Felipe had proposed to
me, and asking him what I should do. My father is
very old, Senorita, and I do not see how he can well
spare me. I am his only child, and my mother died
years ago. We live alone together in our house, and
when I am away he is very lonely. But he would
like to have me earn the wages, I know, and I hope
he will think it best for me to stay. There are many
things we want to do for the village ; most of our
people are poor, and can do little more than get
what they need to eat day by day, and my father
wishes to see them better off before he dies. Now
that the Americans are corning in all around us, he
is afraid and anxious all the time. He wants to get
a big fence built around our land, so as to show
where it is ; but the people cannot take much time
to work on the fence ; they need all their time to
work for themselves and their families. Indians
have a hard time to live now, Senorita. Were you
ever in Temecula ? "

" No," said Eamona. " Is it a large town ? "

Alessandro sighed. " Dear Senorita, it is not a
town ; it is only a little village not more than twenty
houses in all, and some of those are built only of tule.
There is a chapel, and a graveyard. We built an
adobe wall around the graveyard last year. That
my father said we would do, before we built the fence
around the village."

" How many people are there in the village ? " asked
Eamona.

" Nearly two hundred, when they are all there ;
but many of them are away most of the time. They
must go where they can get work ; they are hired by
the farmers, or to do work on the great ditches, or

RAMONA. 163

to go as shepherds ; and some of them take their
wives and children with them. I do not believe the
Senorita has ever seen any very poor people."

" Oh, yes, I have, Alessandro, at Santa Barbara.
There were many poor people there, and the Sisters
used to give them food every week."

" Indians ? " said Alessaudro.

Eamona colored. " Yes," she said, " some of them
were, but not like your men, Alessandro. They were
very different ; miserable looking ; they could not read
nor write, and they seemed to have no ambition."

" That is the trouble," said Alessandro, " with so
many of them ; it is with my father's people, too.
They say, ' What is the use ? ' My father gets in despair
with them, because they will not learn better. He
gives them a great deal, but they do not seem to be
any better off for it. There is only one other man in
our village who can read and write, besides my father
and me, Senorita ; and yet my father is all the time
begging them to come to his house and learn of him.
But they say they have no time ; and indeed there
is much truth in that, Senorita. You see everybody
has troubles, Senorita."

Eamona had been listening with sorrowful face.
All this was new to her. Until to-night, neither she
nor Alessandro had spoken of private and personal
matters.

" Ah, but these are real troubles," she said. " I do
not think mine were real troubles at all. I wish I
could do something for your people, Alessandro. If
the village were only near by, I could teach them,
could I not ? I could teach them to read. The Sis
ters always said, that to teach the ignorant and the
poor was the noblest work one could do. I wish I
could teach your people. Have you any relatives
there besides your father ? Is there any one in the
village that you — love, Alessandro ? "

104 RAMON A.

Alessaudro was too much absorbed in thoughts of
his people, to observe the hesitating emphasis with
which ItSmona asked this question.

" Yes, Seiiorita, I love them all. They are like
my brothers and sisters, all of niy father's people,"
he said ; " and I am unhappy about them, all the
time."

During the whole of this conversation Ramona had
had an undercurrent of thought going on, which was
making her uneasy. The more Alessaudro said about
his father and his people, the more she realized that
he was held to Temecula by bonds that would be hard
to break, the more she feared his father would not let
him remain away from home for any length of time.
At the thought of his going away, her very heart
sickened. Taking a sudden step towards him, she
said abruptly, " Alessandro, I am afraid your father
will not give his consent to your staying here."

" So am I, Senorita," he replied sadly.

" And you would not stay if he did not approve of
it, of course," she said.

" How could I, Senorita ? "

" No," she said, " it would not be right ; " but as she
said these words, the tears filled her eyes.

Alessandro saw them. The world changed in that
second. " Senorita ! Senorita Eamona ! " he cried,
" tears have come in your eyes ! 0 Senorita, then
you will not be angry if I say that I love you ! " and
Alessandro trembled with the terror and delight of
having said the words.

Hardly did he trust his palpitating senses to be
telling him true the words that followed, quick, firm,
though only in a whisper, — "I know that you love
me, Alessandro, and I am -glad of it !", Yes, this was
what the Senorita Ramona was saying ! And when
he stammered, " But you, Seiiorita, you do not — you
could not — " " Yes, Alessandro, I do — I love

RAMON A. 165

you ! " in the same clear, firm whisper ; and the next
minute Alessandro's arms were around Eamona, and
he had kissed her, sobbing rather than saying, " 0
Senorita, do you mean that you will go with me ? that
you are mine ? Oh, no, beloved Senorita, you cannot
mean that ! " But he was kissing her. He knew she
did mean it ; and Eamona, whispering, " Yes, Alessan-
dro, I do mean it ; I will go with you," clung to him
with her hands, and kissed him, and repeated it, " I
will go with you, I love you." And then, just then,
came the Senora's step, and her sharp cry of amaze
ment, and there she stood, no more than an arna's-
length away, looking at them with her indignant,
terrible eyes.

What an hour this for Alessandro to be living over
and over, as he crouched in the darkness, watching !
But the bewilderment of his emotions did not dull
his senses. As if stalking deer in a forest, he listened
for sounds from the house. It seemed strangely still.
As the darkness deepened, it seemed still stranger
that no lamps were lit. Darkness in the Senora's
room, in the Senorita's ; a faint light in the dining-
roorn, soon put out, — evidently no supper going on
there. Only from under Felipe's door streamed a faint
radiance ; and creeping close to the veranda, Ales
sandro heard voices fitfully talking, — the Senora's
and Felipe's ; no word from Eamona. Piteously he
fixed his eyes on her window ; it was open, but the
curtains tight drawn ; no stir, no sound. Where was
she ? What had been done to his love ? Only the
tireless caution and infinite patience of his Indian
blood kept Alessandro from going to her window.
But he would imperil nothing by acting on his own
responsibility. He would wait, if it were till day
light, till his love made a sign. Certainly before
long Senor Felipe would come to his veranda bed, arid
then he could venture to speak to him. But it was

1G6 RAMONA.

near midnight when the door of Felipe's room opened,
and he and his mother came out, still speaking in low
tones. Felipe lay down on his couch ; his mother,
bending over, kissed him, bade him good-night, and
went into her own room.

It had been some time now since Alessandro had
left off sleeping on the veranda floor by Felipe's side.
Felipe was so well it was not needful. But Felipe
felt sure he would come to-night, and was not sur
prised when, a few minutes after the Senora's door
closed, he heard a low voice through the vines, " Senor
Felipe ? "

" Hush, Alessandro," whispered Felipe. " Do not
make a sound. To-morrow morning early I will see
you, behind the little sheepfold. It is not safe to
talk here."

" Where is the Senorita ? " Alessandro breathed
rather than said.

" In her room," answered Felipe.

" Well ? " said Alessandro.

" Yes," said Felipe, hoping he was not lying ; and
this was all Alessandro had to comfort himself with,
through his long night of watching. No, not all ; one
other thing comforted him, — the notes of two wood-
doves, that at intervals he heard, cooing to each other ;
just the two notes, the call and the answer, " Love ? "
" Here." " Love ? " " Here," — and long intervals of
silence between. Plain as if written on a page was
the thing they told.

" That is what my Eamona is like," thought he,
" the gentle wood-dove. If she is my wife my people
will call her Majel, the Wood-Dove."

XI.

TTTHEN' the Seiiora bade Felipe good-night, she
VV did not go to bed. After closing her door,
she sat down to think what should be done about
liamoua. It had been a hard task she had set her
self, talking all the evening with Felipe without
alluding to the topic uppermost in her mind. But
Felipe was still nervous and irritable. She would
not spoil his night's rest, she thought, by talking of
disagreeable things. Moreover, she was not clear in
her own mind what she wished to have done about
Alessandro. If Ramona were to be sent away to the
nuns, which was the only thing the Senora could
think of as yet, there would be no reason for dis
charging Alessandro. And with him the Senora was
by no means ready to part, though in her first anger
she had been ready to dismiss him on the spot. As
she pursued her reflections, the whole situation
cleared itself in her mind ; so easily do affairs fall
into line, in the plottings and plannings of an arbi
trary person, who makes in his formula no allowance
for a human element which he cannot control.

Eamona should be sent in disgrace to the Sisters'
School, to be a servant there for the rest of her life.
The Senora would wash her hands of her forever.
Even Father Salvierderra himself could not expect
her any longer to keep such a shameless creature
under her roof. Her sister's written instructions had
provided for the possibility of just such a contingency.
Going to a secret closet in the wall, behind a life-
size statue of Saint Catharine, the Senora took out an

1GS RAMONA.

iron box, battered and rusty with age, and set it on
the bed. The key turned with difficulty in the lock.
It was many years since the Senora had opened this
box. No one but herself knew of its existence.
There had been many times in the history of the
Moreno house when the price of the contents of that
box would have averted loss and misfortune ; but the
Senora no more thought of touching the treasure than
if it had been guarded by angels with fiery swords.
There they lay, brilliant and shining even in the dim
light of the one candle, — rubies, emeralds, pearls,
and yellow diamonds. The Senora' s lip curled as she
looked at them. " Fine dowry, truly, for a creature
like this!" she said. "Well I knew in the beginning
no good would come of it ; base begotten, base born,
she has but carried out the instincts of her nature.
I suppose I may be grateful that my own son was too
pure to be her prey ! " " To be given to my adopted
daughter, Eamona Ortegna, on her wedding day," —
so the instructions ran, — " if she weds worthily and
with your approval. Should such a misfortune oc
cur, which I do not anticipate, as that she should
prove unworthy, then these jewels, and all I have left
to her of value, shall be the property of the Church."
" No mention as to what I am to do with the girl
herself if she proves unworthy," thought the Senora,
bitterly ; " but the Church is the place for her ; no
other keeping will save her from the lowest depths of
disgrace. I recollect my sister said that Angus had
at first intended to give the infant to the Church.
Would to God he had done so, or left it with its In
dian mother ! " and the Senora rose, and paced the
floor. The paper of her dead sister's handwriting fell
at her feet. As she walked, her long skirt swept it
rustling to and fro. She stooped, picked it up, read
it again, with increasing bitterness. No softness at
the memory of her sister's love for the little child ; no

RAMON A. 1G9

relenting. " Unworthy ! " Yes, that was a mild word
to apply to Ramona, now. It was all settled ; and
when the girl was once out of the house, the Senora
would breathe easier. She and Felipe would lead
their lives together, and Felipe would wed some day.
Was there a woman fair enough, good enough, for
Felipe to wed ? But he must wed ; and the place
would be gay with children's voices, and liamona
would be forgotten.

The Senora did not know how late it was. " I will
tell her to-night," she said. " I will lose no time ;
and now she shall hear who her mother was ! "

It was a strange freak of just impulse in the
Senora's angry soul, which made her suddenly re
member that Ramona had had no supper, and led her
to go to the kitchen, get a jug of milk and some
bread, and take them to the room. Turning the key
cautiously, that Felipe might not hear, she opened
the door and glided in. No voice greeted her ; she
held her candle high up ; no Ramona in sight ; the
bed was empty. She glanced at the window. It
was open. A terror seized the Senora ; fresh anger
also. "She has run off with Alessandro," she thought.
" What horrible disgrace ! " Standing motionless, she
heard a faint, regular breathing from the other side
of the bed. Hastily crossing the room, she saw a
sight which had melted a heart that was only ice ;
but the Senora's was stone towards Ramona. There
lay Ramona on the floor, her head on a pillow at the
feet of the big Madonna which stood in the corner.
Her left hand was under her cheek, her right arm
flung tight around the base of the statue. She was
sound asleep. Her face was wet with tears. Her
whole attitude was full of significance. Even help
less in sleep, she was one who had taken refuge in
sanctuary. This thought had been distinct in the
girl's mind when she found herself, spite of all her

170 P AM ON A.

woe and terror, growing sleepy. " She won't dare to
hurt me at the Virgin's feet," she had said ; " and the
window is open. Felipe would hear if I called ; and
Alessandro will watch." And with a prayer on her
lips she fell asleep.

It was Felipe's nearness more than the Madonna's,
which saved her from being roused to hear her doom.
The Senora stood for some moments looking at her,
and at the open window. With a hot rush of dis
graceful suspicions, she noted what she had never
before thought of, that Alessandro, through all his
watching with Felipe, had had close access to Ra-
mona's window. " Shameful creature ! " she repeated
to herself. " And she can sleep ! It is well she
prayed, if the Virgin will hear such ! " and she turned
away, first setting down the jug of milk and the bread
on a table. Then, with a sudden and still more curi
ous mingling of justness in her wrath, she returned,
and lifting the coverlet from the bed, spread it over
Ramoua, covering her carefully from head to foot.
Then she went out and again locked the door.

Felipe, from his bed, heard and divined all, but
made no sound. " Thank God, the poor child is
asleep ! " he said ; " and my poor dear mother feared
to awake me by speaking to her ! What will become
of us all to-morrow !" And Felipe tossed and turned,
and had barely fallen into an uneasy sleep, when his
mother's window opened, and she sang the first line
of the sunrise hymn. Instantly Ramon a joined, evi
dently awake and ready ; and no sooner did the
watching Alessaudro hear the first note of her voice,
than he struck in ; and Margarita, who had been up
for an hour, prowling, listening, peering, wondering,
her soul racked between her jealousy and her fears, —
even Margarita delayed not to unite ; and Felipe, too,
sang feebly ; and the volume of the song went up as
rounded and melodious as if all hearts were at peace

RAMONA. 171

and in harmony, instead of being all full of sorrow,
confusion, or hatred. But there was no one of them
all who was not the better for the singing ; Earnona
and Alessandro most of all.

" The saints be praised," said Alessandro. " There
is my wood-dove's voice. She can sing ! " And,
"Alessandro was near. He watched all night. I
am glad he loves me," said Earnona.

" To hear those two voices ! " said the Senora ;
" would one suppose they could sing like that ? Per
haps it is not so bad as I think."

As soon as the song was done, Alessandro ran to
the sheepfold, where Felipe had said he would see
him. The minutes would be like years to Alessaudro
till he had seen Felipe.

Eamona, when she waked and found lierself care
fully covered, and bread and milk standing on the
table, felt much reassured. Only the Senora's own
hand had done this, she felt sure, for she had heard
her the previous evening turn the key in the lock,
then violently take it out ; and Eamona knew well
that the fact of her being thus a prisoner would be
known to none but the Senora herself. The Senora
would not set servants to gossiping. She ate her
bread and milk thankfully, for she was very hungry.
Then she set her room in order, said her prayers, and
sat down to wait. For what ? She could not im
agine ; in truth, she did not much try. Eamona had
passed now into a country where the Senora did not
rule. She felt little fear. Felipe would not see her
harmed, and she was going away presently with
Alessandro. It was wonderful what peace and free
dom lay in the very thought. The radiance on her
face of these two new-born emotions was the first
thing the Senora observed as she opened the door, and
slowly, very slowly, eying Eamona with a steady
look, entered the room. This joyous composure on

172 RAMON A.

Eamona's face angered the Senora, as it had done be
fore, when she was dragging her up the garden-walk.
It seemed to her like nothing less than brazen ef
frontery, and it changed the whole tone and manner
of her address.

I Seating herself opposite Kamona, but at the farthest
side of the room, she said, in a tone scornful and in
sulting, " What have you to say for yourself ? "

Returning the Senora's gaze with one no less steady,
Ramoua spoke in the same calm tone in which she had
twice the evening before attempted to stay the Senora's
wrath. This time, she was not interrupted.

" Senora," she said slowly, " I tried to tell you last
night, but you would not hear me. If you had lis
tened, you would not have been so angry. Neither
Alessandro nor I have done anything wrong, and we
were not ashamed. We love each other, and we are
going to be married, and go away. I thank you,
Senora, for all you have done for me ; I am sure you
will be a great deal happier when I am away ; " and
Ramona looked wistfully, with no shade of resent
ment, into the Senora's dark, shrunken face. " You
have been very good to do so much for a girl you
did not love. Thank you for the bread and milk
last night. Perhaps I can go away with Alessandro
to-day. I do not know what he will wish. We had
only just that minute spoken of being married, when
you found us last night."

The Senora's face was a study during the few mo
ments that it took to say these words. She was
dumb with amazement. Instantaneously, on the first
sense of relief that the disgrace had not been what
she supposed, followed a new wrath, if possible hotter
than the first ; not so much scorn, but a bitterer anger.
" Marry ! Marry that Indian ! " she cried, as soon as
she found voice. " You marry an Indian ? Never I
Are you mad ? I will never permit it."

RAMONA. 173

Earaona looked anxiously at her. " I have never
disobeyed you, Seiiora," she said, " but this is different
from all other things; you are not my mother. I
have promised to marry Alessandro."

The girl's gentleness deceived the Senora.

" No," she said icily, " I am not your mother ; but
I stand in a mother's place to you. You were my
sister's adopted child, and she gave you to me. You
cannot marry without my permission, and I forbid
you ever to speak again of marrying this Indian."

The moment had come for the Seiiora Moreno to
find out, to her surprise and cost, of what stuff this girl
was made, — this girl, who had for fourteen years lived
by her side, docile, gentle, sunny, and uncomplaining
in her loneliness. Springing to her feet, and walk
ing swiftly till she stood close face to face with the
Senora, who, herself startled by the girl's swift motion,
had also risen to her feet, Ramona said, in a louder,
firmer voice : " Senora Moreno, you may forbid me
as much as you please. The whole world cannot keep
me from marrying Alessandro. I love him. I have
promised, and I shall keep my word." And with her
young lithe arms straight down at her sides, her head
thrown back, Ramona Hashed full in the Senora' s face a
look of proud defiance. It was the first free moment
her soul had ever known. She felt herself buoyed
up as by wings in air. Her old terror of the Senora
fell from her like a garment thrown off.

" Pshaw ! " said the Senora, contemptuously, half

amused, in spite of her wrath, by the girl's, as she

thought, bootless vehemence, "you talk like a fool.

/Do you not know that I can shut you up in the

nunnery to-morrow, if I choose ? "

" No, you cannot ! " replied Ramona.

" Who, then, is to hinder me ? " said the Senora,
insolently.

" Alessundro ! " answered Ramona, proudly.

174 RAMONA.

" Alessandro ! " the Senora sneered. " Alessandro !
Ha ! a beggarly Indian, on whom my servants will
set the dogs, if I bid them ! Ha, ha ! "

The Senora's sneering tone but roused Eamona
more. " You would never dare !" she cried ; " Felipe
would not permit it ! " A most unwise retort for
Eamona.

" Felipe ! " cried the Senora, in a shrill voice.
" How dare you pronounce his name ! He will none
of you, from this hour ! I will forbid him to speak
to you. Indeed, he will never desire to set eyes on
you when he hears the truth."

" You are mistaken, Senora," answered Ramona,
more gently. " Felipe is Alessandro's friend, and —
mine," she added, after a second's pause.

" So, ho ! the Senorita thinks she is all-powerful in
the house of Moreno ! " cried the Senora. " We will
see ! we will see ! Follow me, Senorita Eamona ! "
And throwing open the door, the Senora strode out,
looking back over her shoulder.

" Follow me ! " she cried again sharply, seeing that
Eamona hesitated ; and Eamona went ; across the
passage-way leading to the dining-room, out into the
veranda, down the entire length of it, to the Senora's
room, — the Senora walking with a quick, agitated
step, strangely unlike her usual gait ; Eamona walking
far slower than was her habit, and with her eyes bent
on the ground. As they passed the dining-room door,
Margarita, standing just inside, shot at Eamona a
vengeful, malignant glance.

" She would help the Senora against me in any
thing," thought Eamona ; and she felt a thrill of fear,
such as the Senora with all her threats had not
stirred.

The Seiiora's windows were open. She closed them
both, and drew the curtains tight. Then she locked
the door, Earnona watching her every movement.

RAMONA. 175

" Sit down in that chair," said the Seiiora, pointing
to one near the fireplace. A sudden nervous terror
seized Kainona.

" I would rather stand, Senora," she said.

" Do as I bid you ! " said the Seiiora, in a husky
tone ; and liamona obeyed. It was a low, broad arm
chair, and as she sank back into it, her senses seemed
leaving her. She leaned her head against the back
and closed her eyes. The room swam. She was
roused by the Senora' s strong smelling-salts held for
her to breathe, and a mocking taunt from the Senora's
iciest voice : " The Senorita does not seem so over-
strong as she did a few moments back ! "

Eainona tried to reason with herself; surely no
ill could happen to her, in this room, within call
of the whole house. But an inexplicable terror had
got possession of her ; and when the Senora, with a
sneer on her face, took hold of the Saint Catharine
statue, and wheeling it half around, brought into view
a door in the wall, with a big iron key in the key
hole, which she proceeded to turn, liamona shook
with fright. She had read of persons who had been
shut up alive in cells in the wall, and starved to
death. With dilating eyes she watched the Senora,
who, all unaware of her terror, was prolonging it and
intensifying it by her every act. First she took out
the small iron box, and set it on a table. Then, kneel
ing, she drew out from an inner recess in the closet a
large leather-covered box, and pulled it, grating and
scraping along the floor, till it stood in front of Ramona.,
All this time she spoke no word, and the cruel expres
sion of her countenance deepened each moment. The
fiends had possession of the Senora Moreno this morn
ing, and no mistake. A braver heart than Eamona's
might have indeed been fearful, at being locked up
alone with a woman who looked like that.

Finally, she locked the door and wheeled the statue

176 RAMONA.

back into its place. Bamona breathed freer. She was
riot, after all, to be thrust into the wall closet and left
to starve. She gazed with wonder at the old battered
boxes. What could it all mean ?

" Senorita Bamona Ortegna," began the Senora,
drawing up a chair, and seating herself by the table
on which stood the iron box, " I will now explain
to you why you will not marry the Indian Ales-
sandro."

At these words, this name, Bamona was herself
again, — not her old self, her new self, Alessandro's
promised wife. The very sound of his name, even on
an enemy's tongue, gave her strength. The terrors
fled away. She looked up, first at the Senora, then
at the nearest window. She was young and strong ;
at one bound, if worst came to worst, she could leap
through the window, and fly for her life, calling on
Alessandro.

" I shall marry the Indian Alessandro, Seiiora Mo
reno," she said, in a tone as defiant, and now almost
as insolent, as the Senora' s own.

The Senora paid no heed to the words, except to
say, " Do not interrupt me again. I have much to
tell you ; " and opening the box, she lifted out and
placed on the table tray after tray of jewels. The
sheet of written paper lay at the bottom of the box.

" Do you see this paper, Senorita Bamoua ? " she
asked, holding it up. Bamona bowed her head. " This
was written by my sister, the Senora Ortegna, who
adopted you and gave you her name. These were her
.final instructions to me, in regard to the disposition
,;to be made of the property she left to you."

Bamona's lips parted. She leaned forward, breath
less, listening, while the Senora read sentence after
sentence. All the pent-up pain, wonder, fear of her
childhood and her girlhood, as to the mystery of her
birth, swept over her anew, now. Like one hearkening

RAMON A. i 77

for life or death, she listened. She forgot Alessandro.
She did not look at the jewels. Her eyes never left
the Senora' s face. At the close of the reading, the
Senora said sternly, " You see, now, that my sister
left to me the entire disposition of everything belong
ing to you."

" But it has n't said who was my mother," cried
Ramona. " Is that all there is in the paper ? "

The Senora looked stupefied. Was the girl feign
ing ? Did she care nothing that all these jewels,
almost a little fortune, were to be lost to her for
ever ?

"Who was your mother?" she exclaimed, scorn
fully. " There was no need to write that down. Your
mother was an Indian. Everybody knew that ! "

At the word "Indian," Ramona gave a low cry.

The Senora misunderstood it. " Ay," she said, " a
low, common Indian. I told my sister, when she took
you, the Indian blood in your veins would show some
day ; and now it has come true."

Ramona's cheeks were scarlet. Her eyes flashed.
" Yes, Senora Moreno," she said, springing to her
feet ; " the Indian blood in my veins shows to-day. I
understand many things I never understood before.
Was it because I was an Indian that you have always
hated me ? "

" You are not an Indian, and I have never hated
you," interrupted the Senora.

Ramona heeded her riot, but went on, more and
more impetuously. " And if I am an Indian, why do
you object to my marrying Alessaudro ? Oh, I am
glad I am an Indian ! I am of his people. He will
be glad ! " The words poured like a torrent out of
her lips. In her excitement she came closer and
closer to the Senora. " You are a cruel woman," she
said. " I did not know it before ; but now I do. If
you knew I was an Indian, you had no reason to treat

12

178 RAM ON A.

me so shamefully as you did last night, when you saw
me with Alessandro. You have always hated me. Is
rny mother alive ? Where does she live ? Tell me ;
and I will go to her to-day. Tell me ! She will be
glad that Alessandro loves me ! "

It was a cruel look, indeed, and a crueller tone, with
which the Senora answered : " I have not the least idea
who your mother was, or if she is still alive. Nobody
ever knew anything about her, — some low, vicious
creature, that your father married when he was out of
his senses, as you are now, when you talk of marrying
Alessandro ! "

" He married her, then ? " asked Eamona, with em
phasis. "How know you that, Senora Moreno?"

" He told my sister so," replied the Senora, reluc
tantly. She grudged the girl even this much of con
solation.

" What was his name ? " asked Eamona.

" Phail ; Angus Phail," the Seuora replied almost
mechanically. She found herself strangely constrained
by Ramona's imperious earnestness, and she chafed
under it. The tables were being turned on her, she
hardly knew how. Kamona seemed to tower in stature,
and to have the bearing of the one in authority, as she
stood before her pouring out passionate question after
question. The Senora turned to the larger box, and
opened it. With unsteady hands she lifted out the
garments which for so many years had rarely seen
the light. Shawls and ribosos of damask, laces,
gowns of satin, of velvet. As the Senora flung one
after another on the chairs, it was a glittering pile of
shining, costly stuffs. Eamona's eyes rested on them
dreamily.

" Did my adopted mother wear all these ? " she
asked, lifting in her hand a fold of lace, and holding
it up to the light, in evident admiration.

Again the Senora misconceived her. The girl

RAMONA. 179

seemed not insensible to the value and beauty of this
costly raiment. Perhaps she would be lured by it.

" All these are yours, Eamona, you understand, on
your wedding day, if you marry worthily, with my
permission," said the Senora, in a voice a shade less
cold than had hitherto come from her lips. "Did you
understand what I read you ? "

The girl did not answer. She had taken up in her
hand a ragged, crimson silk handkerchief, which, tied
in many knots, lay in one corner of the jewel-box.

" There are pearls in that," said the Seiiora ; " that
came with the things your father sent to my sister
when he died."

Eamona's eyes gleamed. She began untying the
knots. The handkerchief was old, the knots tied
tight, and undisturbed for years. As she reached the
last knot, and felt the hard stones, she paused. " This
was iny father's, then ? " she said.

" Yes," said the Senora, scornfully. She thought
she had detected a new baseness in the girl. She
was going to set up a claim to all which had been her
father's property. " They were your father's, and all
these rubies, and these yellow diamonds ; " and she
pushed the tray towards her.

Eamona had untied the last knot. Holding the
handkerchief carefully above the tray, she shook the
pearls out. A strange, spicy fragrance came from
the silk. The pearls fell in among the rubies, rolling
right and left, making the rubies look still redder by
contrast with their snowy whiteness.

" I will keep this handkerchief," she said, thrusting
it, as she spoke, by a swift resolute movement into
her bosom. " I am very glad to have one thing that
belonged to my father. The jewels, Senora, you can
give to the Church, if Father Salvierderra thinks that
is right. I shall marry Aiessandro ; " and still keep
ing one hand in her bosorn where she had thrust the

180 RAMON A.

handkerchief, she walked away and seated herself
again in her chair.

Father Salvierderra ! The name smote the Senoiu
like a spear-thrust. There could be no stronger evi
dence of the abnormal excitement under which she'
had been laboring for the last twenty-four hours, than
the fact that she had not once, during all this time,
thought to ask herself what Father Salvierderra would
say, or might command, in this crisis. Her religion
and the long habit of its outward bonds had alike
gone from her in her sudden wrath against Ramona.
It was with a real terror that she became conscious
of this.

" Father Salvierderra ? " she stammered ; " he has
nothing to do with it."

But Kamona saw the change in the Senora's face,
at the word, and followed up her advantage. "Father
Salvierderra has to do with everything," she said
boldly. " He knows Alessandro. He will not forbid
me to marry him, and if he did — " Ramona stopped.
She -also was smitten with a sudden terror at the
vista opening before her, — of a disobedience to Father
Salvierderra.

" And if he did," repeated the Senora, eying Ramona
keenly, " would you disobey him ? "

" Yes," said Ramona.

" I will tell Father Salvierderra what you say," re
torted the Senora, sarcastically, " that he may spare
himself the humiliation of laying any commands on
you, to be thus disobeyed."

Ramona's lip quivered, and her eyes filled with
the tears which no other of the Senora's taunts had
been strong enough to bring. Dearly she loved the
old monk ; had loved him since her earliest recollec
tion. His displeasure would be far more dreadful to
her than the Senora's. His would give her grief;
the Senora's, at utmost, only terror.

RAMON A. 181

Clasping her hands, she said : " Oh, Seiiora, have
mercy ! Do not say that to the Father ! "

" It is my duty to tell the Father everything that
happens in my family," answered the Senora, chill
ingly. " He will agree with me, that if you persist in
this disobedience you will deserve the severest pun
ishment. I shall tell him all ; " and she began putting
the trays back in the box.

" You will not tell him as it really is, Senora," per
sisted Kamona, " I will tell him myself."

" You shall not see him ! I will take care of
that ! " cried the Senora, so vindictively that Eamona
shuddered.

" I will give you one more chance," said the Sefiora,
pausing in the act of folding up one of the damask
gowns. " Will you obey me ? Will you promise to
have nothing more to do with this Indian ? "

" Never, Senora," replied Ramona ; " never ! "

"Then the consequences be on your own head,"
cried the Senora. " Go to your room ! And, hark ! I
forbid you to speak of all this to Senor Felipe. Do
you hear ? "

Eamona bowed her head. " I hear," she said ; and
gliding out of the room, closed the door behind her,
and instead of going to her room, sped like a hunted
creature down the veranda steps, across the garden,
calling in a low tone, " Felipe ! Felipe ! Where are
you, Felipe ? "

XII.

PT1HE little sheepfold, or corral, was beyond the
J- artichoke-patch, on that southern slope whose
sunshine had proved so disastrous a temptation to
Margarita in the matter of drying the altar-cloth. It
was almost like a terrace, this long slope ; and the
sheepfold, being near the bottom, was wholly out of
sight of the house. This was the reason Felipe had se
lected it as the safest spot for his talk with Alessandro.

When Kamona reached the end of the trellised
walk in the garden, she halted and looked to the right
and left. No one was in sight. As she had entered
the Senora's room an hour before, she had caught a
glimpse of some one, she felt almost positive it was
Felipe, turning off in the path to the left, leading
down to the sheepfold. She stood irresolute for a
moment, gazing earnestly down this path. " If the
saints would only tell me where he is!" she said
aloud. She trembled as she stood there, fearing each
second to hear the Senora's voice calling her. But
fortune was favoring Ramona, for once ; even as the
words passed her lips, she saw Felipe coming slowly
up the bank. She flew to meet him. " Oh, Felipe,
Felipe ! " she began.

"Yes, dear, I know it all," interrupted Felipe;
"Alessandro has told me."

"She forbade me to speak to you, Felipe," said
Ramona, "but I could not bear it. What are we to
do ? Where is Alessandro ? "

" My mother forbade you to speak to me ! " cried Fe
lipe, in a tone of terror. " Oh, Rarnona, why did you

RAMONA. 183

disobey her ? If she sees us talking, she will be even
more displeased. Fly back to your room. Leave it
all to me. I will do all that I can."

" But, Felipe," began Ramona, wringing her hands
in distress.

" I know ! I know ! " said Felipe ; " but you must
not make my mother any more angry. I don't know
what she will do till I talk with her. Do go back to
your room ! Did she not tell you to stay there ? "

" Yes," sobbed Ramona, " but I cannot. Oh, Felipe,
I am so afraid ! Do help us ! Do you think you can ?
You won't let her shut me up in the convent, will
you, Felipe ? Where is Alessandro ? Why can't I go
away with him this minute ? Where is he ? Dear
Felipe, let me go now."

Felipe's face was horror-stricken. " Shut you in the
convent ! " he gasped. " Did she say that ? Ramona,
dear, fly back to your room. Let me talk to her.
Fly, I implore you. I can't do anything for you if
she sees me talking with you now ; " and he turned
away, and walked swiftly down the terrace.

Rarnona felt as if she were indeed alone in the
world. How could she go back into that house !
Slowly she walked up the garden-path again, medi
tating a hundred wild plans of escape. Where, where
was Alessandro ? Why did he not appear for her res
cue ? Her heart failed her ; and when she entered her
room, she sank on the floor in a paroxysm of hopeless
weeping. If she had known that Alessandro was
already a good half-hour's journey on his way to
Temecula, galloping farther and farther away from
her each moment, she would have despaired indeed.

This was what Felipe, after hearing the whole story,
had counselled him to do. Alessandro had given him
so vivid a description of the Senora's face and tone,
when she had ordered him out of her sight, that
Felipe was alarmed. He had never seen his mother

184 RAMON A.

angry like that. He could not conceive why her
wrath should have been so severe. The longer he
talked with Alessandro, the more he felt that it would
be wiser for him to be out of sight till the first force
of her anger had been spent. " I will say that I sent
you," said Felipe. " so she cannot feel that you have
committed any offence in going. Come back in four
days, and by that time it will be all settled what you
shall do."

It went hard with Alessandro to go without seeing
Ramona ; but it did not need Felipe's exclamation of
surprise, to convince him that it would be foolhardy
to attempt it. His own judgment had told him that
it would be out of the question.

"But you will tell her all, Senor Felipe? You
will tell her that it is for her sake I go ? " the poor
fellow said piteously, gazing into Felipe's eyes as if
he would read his inmost soul.

" I will, indeed, Alessandro ; I will," replied Felipe ;
and he held his hand out to Alessandro, as to a friend
and equal. " You may trust me to do all I can do for
Ramona and for you."

" God bless you, Senor Felipe," answered Alessan
dro, gravely, a slight trembling of his voice alone
showing how deeply he was moved.

" He 's a noble fellow," said Felipe to himself, as
he watched Alessandro leap on his horse, which had
been tethered near the corral all night, — "a noble fel
low ! There is n't a man among all my friends who
would have been manlier or franker than he has been
in this whole business. I don't in the least wonder
that Ramona loves him. He 's a noble fellow ! But
what is to be done ! What is to be done ! "

Felipe was sorely perplexed. No sharp crisis of
disagreement had ever arisen between him and his
mother, but he felt that one was coming now. He
was unaware of the extent of his influence over her.

RAMONA. 185

He doubted whether he could move her very far.
The threat of shutting Earnona up in the convent
terrified him more than he liked to admit to himself.
Had she power to do that ? Felipe did not know.
She must believe that she had, or she would not have
made the threat. Felipe's whole soul revolted at the
cruel injustice of the idea.

" As if it were a sin for the poor girl to love Ales-
sandro ! " he said. " I 'd help her to run away with
him, if worse comes to worst. What can make my
mother feel so ! " And Felipe paced back and forth till
the sun was high, and the sharp glare and heat remind
ed him that he must seek shelter ; then he threw him
self down under the willows. He dreaded to go into
the house. His instinctive shrinking from the disa
greeable, his disposition to put off till another time,
held him back, hour by hour. The longer he thought
the situation over, the less he knew how to broach the
subject to his mother; the more uncertain he felt
whether it would be wise for him to broach it at all.
Suddenly he heard his name called. It was Margarita,
who had been sent to call him to dinner. " Good
heavens ! dinner already ! " he cried, springing to his
feet.

" Yes, Senor," replied Margarita, eyeing him obser
vantly. She had seen him talking with Alessandro,
had seen Alessandro galloping away down the river
road. She had also gathered much from the Senora's
look, and Eamona's, as they passed the dining-room
door together soon after breakfast. Margarita could
have given a tolerably connected account of all that
had happened within the last twenty-four hours to
the chief actors in this tragedy which had so suddenly
begun in the Moreno household. Not supposed to
know anything, she yet knew nearly all ; and her
every pulse was beating high with excited conjecture
and wonder as to what would come next.

18G RAMONA.

Dinner was a silent and constrained meal, — Ea-
mona absent, the fiction of her illness still kept up ;
Felipe embarrassed, and unlike himself; the Seiiora
silent, full of angry perplexity. At her first glance
in Felipe's face, she thought to herself, " Eamona has
spoken to him. When and how did she do it ? " For
it had been only a few moments after liamona had
left her presence, that she herself had followed, and,
seeing the girl in her own room, had locked the door
as before, and had spent the rest of the morning on
the veranda within hands' reach of Uamona's window.
How, when, and where had she contrived to commu
nicate with Felipe ? The longer the Seiiora studied
over this, the angrier and more baffled she felt ; to be
outwitted was even worse to her than to be disobeyed.
Under her very eyes, as it were, something evidently
had happened, not only against her will, but which
she could not explain. Her anger even rippled out
towards Felipe, and was fed by the recollection of
Kamona's unwise retort, " Felipe would not let you ! "
What had Felipe done or said to make the girl so
sure that he would be on her side and Alessandro's ?
Was it come to this, that she, the Seiiora Moreno,
was to be defied in her own house by children and
servants !

It was with a tone of severe displeasure that she
said to Felipe, as she rose from the dinner-table,
" My son, I would like to have some conversation
with you in my room, if you are at leisure."

" Certainly, mother," said Felipe, a load rolling off
his mind at her having thus taken the initiative, for
which he lacked courage ; and walking swiftly to
wards her, he attempted to put his arm around her
waist, as it was his affectionate habit frequently to
do. She repulsed him gently, but bethinking herself,
passed her hand through his arm, and leaning on it
heavily as she walked, said : " This is the most fitting

RAMONA. 187

way, my son. I must lean more and more heavily
on you each year now. Age is telling on me fast.
Do you not find me greatly changed, Felipe, in the
last year ? "

" No, madre mia," replied Felipe, " indeed I do not.
I see not that you have changed in the last ten years."
And he was honest in this. His eyes did not note
the changes so clear to others, and for the best of
reasons. The face he saw was one no one else ever
beheld ; it was kindled by emotion, transfigured by
love, whenever it was turned towards him.

The Senora sighed deeply as she answered : " That
must be because you so love me, Felipe. I myself
see the changes even day by day. Troubles tell on
me as they did not when I was younger. Even within
the last twenty-four hours I seem to myself to have
aged frightfully ; " and she looked keenly at Felipe
as she seated herself in the arm-chair where poor
Ramona had swooned a few hours before. Felipe
remained standing before her, gazing, with a tender
expression, upon her features, but saying nothing.

" I see that Ramona has told you all ! " she con
tinued, her voice hardening as she spoke. What a
fortunate wording of her sentence !

" No, mother ; it was not Ramona, it was Ales-
sandro, who told me this morning, early," Felipe an
swered hastily, hurrying on, to draw the conversation
as far away from Ramona as possible. " He came and
spoke to me last night after I was in bed ; but I told
him to wait till morning, and then I would hear all
he had to say."

" Ah ! " said the Senora, relieved. Then, as Felipe
remained silent, she asked, " And what did he say ? "

" He told me all that had happened."

" All ! " said the Senora, sneeringly. " Do you sup
pose that he told you all ? "

" He said that you had bidden him begone out of

188 RAM ON A.

your sight," said Felipe, " and that he supposed lie
must go. So I told him to go at once. I thought
you would prefer not to see him again."

" Ah ! " said the Senora again, startled, gratified
that Felipe had so promptly seconded her action, but
sorry that Alessandro had gone. " Ah, I did not know
whether you would think it best to discharge him at
once or not ; I told him he must answer to you. I
did not know but you might devise some measures
by which he could be retained on the estate."

Felipe stared. Could he believe his ears ? This
did not sound like the relentless displeasure he had
expected. Could Ramona have been dreaming ? Tn
his astonishment, he did not weigh his mother's words
carefully ; he did not carry his conjecture far enough ;
he did not stop to make sure that retaining •Ales
sandro on the estate might not of necessity bode
any good to Ramona ; but with his usual impetuous
ardor, sanguine, at the first glimpse of hope, that all
was well, he exclaimed joyfully, " Ah, dear mother,
if that could only be done, all would be well ; " and,
never noting the expression of his mother's face, nor
pausing to take breath, he poured out all he thought
and felt on the subject.

" That is just what I have been hoping for ever
since I saw that he and Ramona were growing so
fond of each other. He is a splendid fellow, and the
best hand we have ever had on the place. All the
men like him ; he would make a capital overseer ;
and if we put him in charge of the whole estate, there
would not be any objection to his marrying Ramona.
That would give them a good living here with us."

" Enough ! " cried the Senora, in a voice which fell
on Felipe's ears like a voice from some other world,
— so hollow, so strange. He stopped speaking, and
uttered an ejaculation of amazement. At the first
words he had uttered, the Senora had fixed her eyes

RAMONA. 189

on the floor, — a habit of hers when she wished to
listen with close attention. Lifting her eyes now,
and fixing them full on Felipe, she regarded him with
a look which not all his filial reverence could hear
without resentment. It was nearly as scornful as
that with which she had regarded Bamona. Felipe
colored.

" Why do you look at me like that, mother ?" he
exclaimed. " What have I done ? "

The Senora waved her hand imperiously. " Enough ! "
she reiterated. " Do not say any more. I wish to
think for a few moments ; " and she fixed her eyes on
the floor again.

Felipe studied her countenance. A more nearly
rebellious feeling than he had supposed himself
capable of slowly arose in his heart. Now he for
the first time perceived what terror his mother must
inspire in a girl like Ramona.

" Poor little one ! " he thought. " If my mother
looked at her as she did at me just now, I wonder she
did not die."

A great storm was going on in the Senora's bosom.
Wrath against Eamona was uppermost in it. In
addition to all else, the girl had now been the cause,
or at least the occasion, of Felipe's having, for the
first time in his whole life, angered her beyond her
control.

" As if I had not suffered enough by reason of that
creature," she thought bitterly to herself, " without
her coming between me and Felipe ! "

But nothing could long come between the Senora
and Felipe. Like a fresh lava-stream flowing down
close on the track of its predecessor, came the rush
of the mother's passionate love for her son close on
the passionate anger at his words.

When she lifted her eyes they were full of tears,
which it smote Felipe to see. As she gazed at him,

190 RAMON A.

they rolled down her cheeks, and she said in trem
bling tones : " Forgive me, my child ; I had not thought
anything could make me thus angry with you. That
shameless creature is costing us too dear. She must
leave the house."

Felipe's heart gave a bound ; Eamona had not been
mistaken, then. A bitter shame seized him at his
mother's cruelty. But her tears made him tender ;
and it was in a gentle, even pleading voice that he
replied : " I do not see, mother, why you call Eamona
shameless. There is nothing wrong in her loving
Alessaudro."

" I found her in his arms ! " exclaimed the Senora.

" I know," said Felipe ; " Alessandro told me that
he had just at that instant told her he loved her, and
she had said she loved him, and would marry him,
just as you came up."

" Humph ! " retorted the Senora ; " do you think
that Indian would have dared to speak a word of
love to the Senorita Eamona Ortegna, if she had not
conducted herself shamelessly ? I wonder that he
concerned himself to speak about marriage to her
at all."

" Oh, mother ! mother ! " was all that Felipe could
say to this. He was aghast. He saw now, in a Hash,
the whole picture as it lay in his mother's mind, and
his heart sank within him. " Mother !" he repeated,
in a tone which spoke volumes.

" Ay," she continued, " that is what I say. I see
no reason why he hesitated to take her, as he would
take any Indian squaw, with small ceremony of
marrying."

" Alessandro would not take any woman that way
any quicker than I would, mother," said Felipe
courageously ; " you do him injustice." He longed to
add, "And Eamona too," but he feared to make bad
matters worse by pleading for her at present.

BAMONA. 191

" No, I do not," said the Sefiora ; " I do Alessandro
full justice. I think very few men would have be
haved as well as he has under the same temptation.
I do not hold him in the least responsible for all that
has happened. It is all Ilamona's fault."

Felipe's patience gave way. He had not known,
till now, how very closely this pure and gentle girl,
whom he had loved as a sister in his boyhood, and
had come near loving as a lover in his manhood,
had twined herself around his heart. He could not
remain silent another moment, and hear her thus
wickedly accused.

" Mother ! " he exclaimed, in a tone which made
the Senora look up at him in sudden astonishment.
" Mother, I cannot help it if I make you very angry ;
I must speak; I can't bear to hear you say such
things of Kamona. I have seen for a long time that
Alessandro loved the very ground under her feet;
and Eamoua would not have been a woman if she
had not seen it too ! She has seen it, and has felt it,
and has come to love him with all her soul, just as I
hope some woman will love ine one of these days.
If I am ever loved as well as she loves Alessandro, I
shall be lucky. I think they ought to be married ;
and I think we ought to take Alessandro on to the
estate, so that they can live here. I don't see any
thing disgraceful in it, nor anything wrong, nor any
thing but what was perfectly natural. You know,
mother, it is n't as if Ramona really belonged to our
family ; you know she is half Indian." A scornful
ejaculation from his mother interrupted him here ;
but Felipe hurried on, partly because he was borne
out of himself at last by impetuous feeling, partly
that he dreaded to stop, because if he did, his mother
would speak ; and already he felt a terror of what her
next words might be. " I have often thought about
Eainoiia's future, mother. You know a great many

192 RAM ON A.

men would not want to marry her, just because she is
half Indian. You, yourself, would never have given
your consent to my marrying her, if I had wanted
to." Again an exclamation from the Senora, this
time more of horror than of scorn. But Felipe
pressed on. " No, of course you would not, I always
knew that ; except for that, I might have loved her
myself, for a sweeter girl never drew breath in this
God's earth." Felipe was reckless now ; having en
tered on this war, he would wage it with every
weapon that lay within his reach; if one did not
tell, another might. " You have never loved her.
I don't know that you have ever even liked her;
I don't think you have. I know, as a little boy, I
always used to see how much kinder you were to me
than to her, and I never could understand it. And
you are unjust to her now. I 've been watching her
all summer ; I 've seen her and Alessandro together
continually. You know yourself, mother, he has
been with us on the veranda, day after day, just as if
he were one of the family. I 've watched them by
the hour, when I lay there so sick ; I thought you
must have seen it too. I don't believe Alessandro
has ever looked or said or done a thing I would n't
have done in his place ; and I don't believe Earn on a
has ever looked, said, or done a thing I would not
be willing to have my own sister do ! " Here Felipe
paused. He had made his charge ; like a young
impetuous general, massing all his forces at the
onset ; he had no reserves. It is not the way to
take Gibraltars.

When he paused, literally breathless, he had spo
ken so fast, — and even yet Felipe was not quite
strong, so sadly had the fever undermined his con
stitution, — the Senora looked at him interrogatively,
and said in a now composed tone : " You do not be
lieve that Eamoua has done anything that you would

RAMONA. 193

not be willing to have your own sister do ? Would
you be willing that your own. sister should marry
Alessandro ? "

Clever Senora Moreno ! During the few moments
that Felipe had been speaking, she had perceived
certain things which it would be beyond her power
to do ; certain others that it would be impolitic to
try to do. Nothing could possibly compensate her
for antagonizing Felipe. Nothing could so deeply
wound her, as to have him in a resentful mood
towards her ; or so weaken her real control of him,
as to have him feel that she arbitrarily overruled
his preference or his purpose. In presence of her
imperious will, even her wrath capitulated and sur
rendered. There would be no hot words between
her and her son. He should believe that he deter
mined the policy of the Moreno house, even in this
desperate crisis.

Felipe did not answer. A better thrust was never
seen on any field than the Seiiora's question. She
repeated it, still more deliberately, in her wonted
gentle voice. The Senora was herself again, as she
had not been for a moment since she came upon
Alessandro and Eamona at the brook. How just
and reasonable the question sounded, as she repeated
it slowly, with an expression in her eyes, of poising
and weighing matters. " Would you be willing that
your own sister should marry Alessandro ? "

Felipe was embarrassed. He saw whither he was
being led. He could give but one answer to this
i question. "No, mother," he said, "I should not;
but—"

" Never mind buts," interrupted his mother ; " we
have not got to those yet ; " and she smiled on Fe
lipe, — an affectionate smile, but it somehow gave
him a feeling of dread. " Of course I knew you could
make but one answer to my question. If you had

13

194 RAMON A.

a sister, you would rnther see her dead than married
to any one of these Indians."

Felipe opened Ids lips eagerly, to speak. " Not
so," he said.

" Wait, dear ! " exclaimed his mother. " One thing
at a time. I see how full your loving heart is, and I
was never prouder of you as my son than when lis
tening just now to your eloquent defence of Eamona.
Perhaps you may be right and I wrong as to her
character and conduct. We will not discuss those
points." It was here that the Sefora had perceived
some things that it would be out of her power to do.
" We will not discuss those, because they do not
touch the real point at issue. What it is our duty
to do by Eamona, in such a matter as this, does
not turn on her worthiness or unworthiness. The
question is, Is it right for you to allow her to do what
you would not allow your own sister to do ? " The
Senora paused for a second, noted with secret satis
faction how puzzled and unhappy Felipe looked ; then,
in a still gentler voice, she went on, " You surely
would not think that right, my son, would you ? "
And now the Senora waited for an answer.

" No, mother," came reluctantly from Felipe's lips.
" I suppose not ; but — "

" I was sure my own son could make no other
reply," interrupted the Senora. She did not wish
Felipe at present to do more than reply to her ques
tions. " Of course it would not be right for us to let
Eamona do anything which we would not let her do
if she were really of our own blood. That is the way
I have always looked at my obligation to her. My
sister intended to rear her as her own daughter. She
had given her her own name. When my sister died,
she transferred to me all her right and responsibility
in and for the child. You do not suppose that if
your aunt had lived, she would have ever given her

RAMONA. 195

consent to her adopted daughter's marrying an In
dian, do you ? "

Again the Seiiora paused for a reply, and again the
reluctant Felipe said, in a low tone. " No, I suppose
she would not."

"Very well. Then that lays a double obligation
on us. It is not only that we are not to permit
Ramona to do a thing which we would consider dis
graceful to one of our own blood ; we are not to betray
the trust reposed in us by the only person who had
a right to control her, and who transferred that trust
to us. Is not that so ? "

" Yes, mother," said the unhappy Felipe.

He saw the meshes closing around him. He felt
that there was a flaw somewhere in his mother's rea
soning, but he could not point it out; in fact, he
could hardly make it distinct to himself. His brain
was confused. Only one thing he saw clearly, and
that was, that after all had been said and done,
Eamona would still marry Alessandro. But it was
evident that it would never be with his mother's con
sent. " Nor with mine either, openly, the way she
puts it. I don't see how it can be ; and yet I have
promised Alessandro to do all I could for him. Curse
the luck, I wish he had never set foot on the place ! "
said Felipe in his heart, growing unreasonable, and
tired with the perplexity.

The Seiiora continued : " I shall always blame my
self bitterly for having failed to see what was going
on. As you say, Alessandro has been with us a great
deal since your illness, with his music, and singing,
and one thing and another ; but I can truly say that
I never thought of Ramona' s being in danger of look
ing upon him in the light of a possible lover, any
more than of her looking thus upon Juan Cariito,
or Luigo, or any other of the herdsmen or labor
ers. I regret it more than words can express, and I

196 BAMONA.

do not know what we can do, now that it has
happened."

" That 's it, mother ! That 's it ! " broke in Felipe.
" You see, you see it is too late now."

The Seiiora went on as if Felipe had not spoken.
"I suppose you would really very much regret to
part with Alessandro, and your word is in a way
pledged to him, as you had asked him if he would
stay on the place. Of course, now that all this has
happened, it would be very unpleasant for Ramona
to stay here, and see him continually — at least for
a time, until she gets over this strange passion she
seems to have conceived for him. It will not last.
Such sudden passions never do." The Seiiora artfully
interpolated, "What should you think, Felipe, of
having her go back to the Sisters' school for a time ?
She was very happy there."

The Senora had strained a point too far. Felipe's
self-control suddenly gave way, and as impetuously
as he had spoken in the beginning, he spoke again
now, nerved by the memory of Ramona's face and
tone as she had cried to him in the garden, " Oh,
Felipe, you won't let her shut me up in the convent,
will you ? " " Mother ! " he cried, " you would never
do that. You would not shut the poor girl up in the
convent ! "

The Senora raised her eyebrows in astonishment.
"Who spoke of shutting up ?" she said. " Eamona
has already been there at school. She might go
again. She is not too old to learn. A change of
scene and occupation is the best possible cure for a
girl who has a thing of this sort to get over. Can
you propose anything better, my son ? What would
you advise ? " And a third time the Senora paused
for an answer.

These pauses and direct questions of the Senora's
xvere like nothing in life so much as like that sta^e

RAMONA. 197

in a spider's processes when, withdrawing a little
way from a half-entangled victim, which still sup
poses himself free, it rests from its weaving, and
watches the victim nutter. Subtle questions like
these, assuming, taking for grantee! as settled, much
which had never been settled at all, were among the
best weapons in the Senora's armory. They rarely
failed her.

" Advise ! " cried Felipe, excitedly. " Advise !
This is what I advise — to let Eamona and Alessan-
dro marry. I can't help all you say about our obli
gations. I dare say you 're right ; and it 's a cursedly
awkward complication for us, anyhow, the way you
put it."

" Yes, awkward for you, as the head of our house,"
interrupted the Senora, sighing. " I don't quite see
how you would face it."

" Well, I don't propose to face it," continued Felipe,
testily. " I don't propose to have anything to do
with it, from first to last. Let her go away with him,
if she wants to."

" Without our consent ? " said the Senora, gently.

" Yes, without it, if she can't go with it ; and I don't
see, as you have stated it, how we could exactly take
any responsibility about marrying her to Alessandro.
But for heaven's sake, mother, let her go ! She will
go, any way. You have n't the least idea how she
loves Alessandro, or how he loves her. Let her go ! "

" Do you really think she would run away with
him, if it came to that ? " asked the Senora, earnestly
" Run away and marry him, spite of our refusing to
consent to the marriage ? "

" I do," said Felipe.

" Then it is your opinion, is it, that the only thing
left for us to do, is to wash our hands of it altogether,
and leave her free to do what she pleases ? "

"That's just what I do think, mother," replied

198 PAMONA.

Felipe, his heart growing lighter at her words.
" That 's just what I do think. We can't prevent
it, and it is of no use to try. Do let us tell them
they can do as they like."

" Of course, Alessandro must leave us, then," said
the Senora. " They could not stay here."

" I don't see why ! " said Felipe, anxiously.

" You will, my son, if you think a moment. Could
we possibly give a stronger indorsement to their
marriage than by keeping them here ? Don't you
see that would be so ? "

Felipe's eyes fell. " Then I suppose they could n't
be married here, either," he said.

" What more could we do than that, for a marriage
that we heartily approved of, my son ? "

" True, mother ; " and Felipe clapped his hand to his
forehead. " But then we force them to run away ! "

" Oh, no ! " said the Senora, icily. " If they go,
they will go of their own accord. We hope they will
never do anything so foolish and wrong. If they do,
I suppose we shall always be held in a measure re
sponsible for not having prevented it. But if you
think it is not wise, or of no use to attempt that, I
do not see what there is to be done."

Felipe did not speak. .He felt discomfited ; felt
as if he had betrayed his friend Alessandro, his
sister Eamona ; as if a strange complication, network
of circumstances, had forced him into a false position ;
he did not see what more he could ask, what more
could be asked, of his mother ; he did not see, either,
that much less could have been granted to Alessandro
and Eamona ; he was angry, wearied, perplexed.

The Senora studied his face. " You do not seem
satisfied, Felipe dear," she said tenderly. " As, in
deed, how could you be in this unfortunate state of
affairs ? But can you think of anything different for
us to do ? "

RAMON A. 199

"No," said Felipe, bitterly. "I can't, that's the
worst of it. It is just turning Eamona out of the
house, that 's all."

" Felipe ! Felipe ! " exclaimed the Senora, " how
unjust you are to yourself! You know you would
never do that ! You know that she has always had a
home here as if she were a daughter ; and always will
have, as long as she wishes it. If she chooses to turn
her back on it, and go away, is it our fault ? Do not
let your pity for this misguided girl blind you to
what is just to yourself and to me. Turn Eamona
out of the house ! You know I promised my sister
to bring her up as my own child ; and I have always
felt that my son would receive the trust from me, when
I died, Eamona has a home under the Moreno roof
so long as she will accept it. It is not just, Felipe,
to say that we turn her out ; " and tears stood in the
Senora's eyes.

" Forgive me, dear mother," cried the unhappy
Felipe. "Forgive me for adding one burden to all
you have to bear. Truth is, this miserable business
has so distraught my senses, I can't seem to see
anything as it is. Dear mother, it is very hard for
you. I wish it were done with."

" Thanks for your precious sympathy, my Felipe,"
replied the Senora. " If it were not for you, I should
long ago have broken down beneath my cares and
burdens. But among them all, have been few so
grievous as this. I feel myself and our home dis
honored. But we must submit. As you say, Felipe,
I wish it were done with. It would be as well, per
haps, to send for Eamona at once, and tell her what
we have decided. She is no doubt in great anxiety ;
we will see her here."

Felipe would have greatly preferred to see Eamona
alone ; but as he knew not how to bring this about^
he assented to his mother's suggestion.

200 RAMONA.

Opening her door, the Sefiora walked slowly down

the passage-way, unlocked Ramona's door, and said :
" Ramona, be so good as to come to my room.
Felipe and I have something to say to you."

Ramona followed, heavy-hearted. The words,
" Felipe and I," boded no good.

" The Senora has made Felipe think just as she
does herself," thought Ramona. " Oh, what will be
come of me ! " and she stole a reproachful, implor
ing look at Felipe. He smiled back in a way which
reassured her ; but the reassurance did not last
long.

"Sefiorita Ramona Ortegna," began the Sefiora.
Felipe shivered. He had had no conception that his
mother could speak in that way. The words seemed
to open a gulf between Ramona and all the rest of
the world, so cold and distant they sounded, — as the
Sefiora might speak to an intruding stranger.

" Sefiorita Ramona Ortegna," she said, " my son and
I have been discussing what it is best for us to do in
the mortifying and humiliating position in which you
place us by your relation with the Indian Alessandro.
Of course you know — or you ought to know —
that it is utterly impossible for us to give our con
sent to your making such a marriage ; we should be
false to a trust, and dishonor our own family name, if
we did that."

Ramona's eyes dilated, her cheeks paled; she
opened her lips, but no sound came from them ; she
looked toward Felipe, and seeing him with downcast
eyes, and an expression of angry embarrassment on
his face, despair seized her. Felipe had deserted their
cause. Oh, where, where was Alessandro ! Clasping
her hands, she uttered a low cry, — a cry that cut
Felipe to the heart. He was finding out, in thus
being witness of Ramona's suffering, that she was far
nearer and dearer to him than he had realized. It

RAMON A. 201

would have taken very little, at such moments as
these, to have made Felipe her lover again ; he felt
now like springing to her side, folding his arms
around her, and bidding his mother defiance. It took
all the self-control he could gather, to remain silent,
and trust to Eamona's understanding him later.

Eamona's cry made no break in the smooth, icy
flow of the Senora's sentences. She gave no sign of
having heard it, but continued : " My son tells me
that he thinks our forbidding it would make no dif
ference ; that you would go away with the man all
the same. I suppose he is right in thinking so, as
you yourself told me that even if Father Salvier-
derra forbade it, you would disobey him. Of course,
if this is your determination, we are powerless. Even
if I were to put you in the keeping of the Church,
which is what I am sure my sister, who adopted you
as her child, would do, if she were alive, you would
devise some means of escape, and thus bring a still
greater and more public scandal on the family. Felipe
thinks that it is not worth while to attempt to bring
you to reason in that way ; and we shall therefore do
nothing. I wished to impress it upon you that my
son, as head of this house, and I, as my sister's repre
sentative, consider you a member of our own family.
So long as we have a home for ourselves, that home is
yours, as it always has been. If you choose to leave
it, and to disgrace yourself and us by marrying an
Indian, we cannot help ourselves."

The Senora paused. Ramona did not speak. Her
eyes were fixed on the Senora's face, as if she would
penetrate to her inmost soul ; the girl was beginning
to recognize the Senora's true nature ; her instincts
and her perceptions were sharpened by love.

" Have you anything to say to me or to my son ? "
asked the Senora.

" No, Senora," replied Ramona ; " I do not think

202 RAM ON A.

of anything more to say than I said this morning.
Yes," she added, "there is. Perhaps I shall not
speak with you again before I go away. I thank
you once more for the home you have given me for
so many years. And you too, Felipe," she continued,
curning towards Felipe, her face changing, all her
pent-up affection and sorrow looking out of her tear
ful eyes, — " you too, dear Felipe. You have always
been so good to me. I shall always love you as long
as I live ; " and she held out both her hands to him.
Felipe took them in his, and was about to speak,
when the Senora interrupted him. She did not in
tend to have any more of this sort of affectionate
familiarity between her son and Eamona.

" Are we to understand that you are taking your
leave now ? " she said. " Is it your purpose to go at
once ? "

" I do not know, Senora," stammered Eamona ; " I
have not seen Alessandro; I have not heard — "
And she looked up in distress at Felipe, who answered
compassionately, —

" Alessandro has gone."

" Gone ! " shrieked Ramona. " Gone ! not gone,
Felipe ! "

" Only for four days," replied Felipe. " To Temec-
ula. I thought it would be better for him to be
away for a day or two. He is to come back im
mediately. Perhaps he will be back day after to
morrow."

" Did he want to go ? What did he go for ? Why
did n't you let me go with him ? Oh, why, why did
he go ? " cried Eamona.

" He went because my son told him to go," broke
in the Senora, impatient of this scene, and of the
sympathy she saw struggling in Felipe's expressive
features. " My son thought, and rightly, that the
sight of him would be more than I could bear just

RAMON A. 203

now ; so he ordered him to go away, and Alessandro
obeyed."

Like a wounded creature at bay, Eamona turned
suddenly away from Felipe, and i'acing the Senora,,
her eyes resolute and dauntless spite of the streaming
tears, exclaimed, lifting her right hand as she spoke,
" You have been cruel ; God will punish you ! " and
without waiting to see what effect her words had pro
duced, without looking again at Felipe, she walked
swiftly out of the room.

" You see," said the Senora, " you see she defies us."
• " She is desperate," said Felipe. " I am sorry I
sent Alessandro away."

" No, my son," replied the Senora, " you were wise,
as you always are. It may bring her to her senses,
to have a few days' reflection in solitude."

" You do not mean to keep her locked up, mother,
do you ? " cried Felipe.

The Sefiora turned a look of apparently undis
guised amazement on him. " You would not think
that best, would you ? Did you not say that all we
could do, was simply not to interfere with her in any
way ? To wash our hands, so far as is possible, of
all responsibility about her ? "

" Yes, yes," said the baffled Felipe ; " that was what
I ^ said. But, mother — " He stopped. He did not
know what he wanted to say.

The Sefiora looked tenderly at him, her face full of
anxious inquiry.

" What is it, Felipe dear ? Is there anything more
you think I ought to say or do ? " she asked.

" What is it you are going to do, mother ? " said
Felipe. " I don't seem to understand what you are
going to do."

" Nothing, Felipe ! You have entirely convinced
me that all effort would be thrown away. I shall do
nothing," replied the Senora. " Nothing whatever."

204 RAMONA.

" Then as long as Ramona is here, everything will
be just as it always has been ? " said Felipe.

The Senora smiled sadly. " Dear Felipe, do you
think that possible ? A girl who has announced her
determination to disobey not only you and me, but
Father Salvierderra, who is going to bring disgrace
both on the Moreno and the Ortegna name, — we
can't feel exactly the same towards her as we did be
fore, can we ? "

Felipe made an impatient gesture. " No, of course
not. But I mean, is everything to be just the same,
outwardly, as it was before ? "

" I supposed so," said the Senora. " Was not that
your idea ? We must try to have it so, I think. Do
not you ? "

u Yes," groaned Felipe, " if we can I "

xm.

Senora Moreno had never before been so
JL discomfited as in this matter of Eamona and
Alessandro. It chafed her to think over her conver
sation with Felipe ; to recall how far the thing she
finally attained was from the thing she had in view
when she began. To have Eamona sent to the con
vent, Alessandro kept as overseer of the place, and
the Ortegna jewels turned into the treasury of the
Church, — this was the plan she had determined on
in her own mind. Instead of this, Alessandro was
not to be overseer on the place ; Eamona would not
go to the convent : she would be married to Ales
sandro, and they would go away together ; and the
Ortegna jewels, — well, that was a thing to be decided
in the future ; that should be left to Father Salvier-
derra to decide. Bold as the Senora was, she had
not quite the courage requisite to take that question
wholly into her own hands.

One thing was clear, Felipe must not be consulted
in regard to them. He had never known of them,
and need not now. Felipe was far too much in sym
pathy with Eamona to take a just view of the situa
tion. He would be sure to have a quixotic idea of
Eamona's right of ownership. It was not impossible
that Father Salvierderra might have the same feeling.
If so, she must yield ; but that would go harder with
her than all the rest. Almost the Senora would have
been ready to keep the whole thing a secret from the
Father, if he had riot been at the time of the Senora
Ortegna's death fully informed of all the particulars

206 RAMON A.

of her bequest to her adopted child. At any rate, it
would be nearly a year before the Father carne again,
and in the mean time she would not risk writing
about it. The treasure was as safe in Saint Catha
rine's keeping as it had been all these fourteen years ;,
it should still lie hidden there. When Eamona went
away with Alessandro, she would write to Father
Salvierderra, simply stating the facts in her own way,
and telling him that all further questions must wait
for decision until they met.

And so she plotted and planned, and mapped out
the future in her tireless weaving brain, till she
was somewhat soothed for the partial failure of her
plans.

There is nothing so skilful in its own defence as im
perious pride. It has an ingenious system of its own,
of reprisals, — a system so ingenious that the defeat
must be sore indeed, after which it cannot still find
some booty to bring off ! And even greater than this
ingenuity at reprisals is its capacity for self-decep
tion. In this regard, it outdoes vanity a thousand
fold. Wounded vanity knows when it is mortally
hurt; and limps off the field, piteous, all disguises
thrown away. But pride carries its banner to the last ;
and fast as it is driven from one field unfurls it in
another, never admitting that there is a shade less
honor in the second field than in the first, or in the
third than in the ^second ; and so on till death. It is
impossible not to have a certain sort of admiration
for this kind of pride. Cruel, those who have it, are
to all who come in their way ; but they are equally
cruel to themselves, when pride demands the sacri
fice. Such pride as this has led many a forlorn hope,
on the earth, when all other motives have died out of
men's breasts ; has won many a crown, which has not
been called by its true name.

Before the afternoon was over, the Senora had her

RAMON A. 207

plan, her chart of the future, as it were, all recon
structed ; the sting of her discomfiture soothed ; the
placid quiet of her manner restored ; her habitual
occupations also, and little ways, all resumed. She
was going to do "nothing" in regard to Eamona.
Only she herself knew how much that meant ; how!
bitterly much ! She wished she were sure that Felipe
also would do " nothing ; " but her mind still misgave
her about Felipe. Uripityingly she had led him on,
and entangled him in his own words, step by step,
till she had brought him to the position she wished
him to take. Ostensibly, his position and hers were
one, their action a unit; all the same, she did not
deceive herself as to his real feeling about the affair.
He loved Eamona. He liked Alessandro. Barring
the question of family pride, which he had hardly
thought of till she suggested it, and which he would
not dwell on apart from her continuing to press it,—
barring this, he would have liked to have Alessandro
marry Eamona and remain on the place. All this
would come uppermost in Felipe's mind again when
he was removed from the pressure of her influence.
Nevertheless, she did not intend to speak with him on
the subject again, or to permit him to speak to her.
Her ends would be best attained by taking and keep
ing the ground that the question of their non-inter
ference having been settled once for all, the painful
topic should never be renewed between them. In
patient silence they must await Eamona's action ;
must bear whatever of disgrace and pain she chose
to inflict on the family which had sheltered her from
her infancy till now.

The details of the "nothing" she proposed to do,
slowly arranged themselves in her mind. There
should be no apparent change in Eamona's position
in the house. She should come and go as freely as
ever; no watch on her movements; she should eat,

208 RAMON A.

sleep, rise up and sit down with them, as before ;
there should be not a word, or act, that Felipe's
sympathetic sensitiveness could construe into any
provocation to Ramona to run away. Nevertheless,
Ramona should be made to feel, every moment of
every hour, that she was in disgrace ; that she was
with them, but not of them ; that she had chosen an
alien's position, and must abide by it. How this was
to be done, the Senora did not put in words to her
self, but she knew very well. If anything would
bring the girl to her senses, this would. There might
still be a hope, the Senora believed, so little did she
know Ramona's nature, or the depth of her affection
for Alessandro, that she might be in this manner
brought to see the enormity of the offence she would
commit if she persisted in her purpose. And if she
did perceive this, confess her wrong, and give up the
marriage, — the Senora grew almost generous and
tolerant in her thoughts as she contemplated this
contingency, — if she did thus humble herself and
return to her rightful allegiance to the Moreno house,
the Senora would forgive her, and would do more for
her than she had ever hitherto done. She would take
her to Los Angeles and to Monterey ; would show her
a little more of the world ; and it was by no means
unlikely that there might thus come about for her a
satisi'actory and honorable marriage. Felipe should
see that she was not disposed to deal unfairly by
Ramona in any way, if Ramona herself would behave
properly.

Ramona's surprise, when the Senora entered her
room just before supper, and, in her ordinary tone,
asked a question about the chili which was drying on
the veranda, was so great, that she could not avoid
showing it both in her voice and look.

The Senora recognized this immediately, but gave
no sign of having done so, continuing what she had

RAMONA. 209

to say about the chili, the hot sun, the turning of the
grapes, etc., precisely as she would have spoken to
Itamona a week previous. At least, this was what
llamona at first thought; but before the sentences
were finished, she had detected in the Senora's eye and
tone the weapons which were to be employed against
her. The emotion of half-grateful wonder with which
she had heard the first words changed quickly to
heart-sick misery before they were concluded ; and
she said to herself : " That 's the way she is going to
break me down, she thinks ! But she can't do it. I
can bear anything for four days ; and the minute
Alessandro comes, I will go away with him." This
train of thought in Ilamona's mind was reflected in
her face. The Senora saw it, and hardened herself
still more. It was to be war, then. No hope of sur
render. Very well. The girl had made her choice.

Margarita was now the most puzzled person in
the household. She had overheard snatches of the
conversation between Felipe and his mother and
Ramona, having let her curiosity get so far the better
of her discretion as to creep to the door and listen.
In fact, she narrowly escaped being caught, having
had barely time to begin her feint of sweeping the
passage-way, when Kamona, flinging the door wide
open, came out, after her final reply to the Senora,
the words of which Margarita had distinctly heard .-
" God will punish you."

" Holy Virgin ! how dare she say that to the
Senora ? " ejaculated Margarita, under her breath ;
and the next second llamona rushed by, not even
seeing her. But the Senora's vigilant eyes, following
llamona, saw her ; and the Senora's voice had a ring
of suspicion in it, as she called, " How comes it you
are sweeping the passage-way at this hour of the day,
Margarita ? "

It was surely the devil himself that put into Mar-

210 RAMON A.

garita's head the quick lie which she instantaneously
told. " There was early breakfast, Senora, to be cooked
for Alessandro, who was setting off in haste, and my
mother was not up, so I had it to cook."

As Margarita said this, Felipe fixed his eyes steadily
upon her. She changed color. Felipe knew this was
a lie. He had seen Margarita peering about among
the willows while he was talking with Alessandro at
the sheepfold ; he had seen Alessandro halt for a
moment and speak to her as he rode past, — only for
a moment ; then, pricking his horse sharply, he had
galloped off down the valley road. No breakfast had
Alessandro had at Margarita's hands, or any other's,
that morning. What could have been Margarita's
motive for telling this lie ?

But Felipe had too many serious cares on his mind
to busy himself long with any thought of Margarita
or her fibs. She had said the first thing which came
into her head, most likely, to shelter herself from the
Senora' s displeasure ; which was indeed very near the
truth, only there was added a spice of malice against
Alessandro. A slight undercurrent of jealous antago
nism towards him had begun to grow up among the
servants of late ; fostered, if not originated, by Mar
garita's sharp sayings as to his being admitted to
such strange intimacy with the family.

While Felipe continued ill, and was so soothed to
rest by his music, there was no room for cavil. It
was natural that Alessandro came and went as a
physician might. But after Felipe had recovered, why
should this freedom and intimacy continue ? More
than once there had been sullen mutterings of this
kind on the north veranda, when all the laborers and
servants were gathered there of an evening, Alessan
dro alone being absent from the group, and the sounds
of his voice or his violin coming from the south
veranda, where the family sat.

RAMONA. 211

" It would be a good thing if we too had a bit of
music now and then," Juan Canito would grumble ;
" but the lad 's chary enough of his bow on this side
the house."

" Ho ! we 're not good enough for him to play to ! "
Margarita would reply ; " ' Like master, like servant/
is a good proverb sometimes, but not always. But
there 's a deal going on, on the veranda yonder, be
sides fiddling ! " and Margarita's lips would purse
themselves up in an expression of concentrated mys
tery and secret knowledge, well fitted to draw from
everybody a fire of questions, none of which, how
ever, would she answer. She knew better than to
slander the Senorita Eamona, or to say a word even
reflecting upon her unfavorably. Not a man or a
woman there would have borne it. They all had
loved Eamona ever since she came among them as a
toddling baby. They petted her then, and idolized
her now. Not one of them whom she had not done
good offices for, — nursed them, cheered them, re
membered their birthdays and their saints'-days. To
no one but her mother had Margarita unbosomed
what she knew, and what she suspected ; and old
Marda, frightened at the bare pronouncing of such
words, had terrified Margarita into the solemnest of
promises never, under any circumstances whatever, to
eay such things to any other member of the family.
Marda did not believe them. She could not. She be
lieved that Margarita's jealousy had imagined all.

" And the Senora ; she 'd send yo\\ packing off
this place in an hour, and me too, long 's I 've lived
here, if ever she was to know of you blackening the
Senorita. An Indian, too ! You must be mad, Mar
garita ! "

When Margarita, in triumph, had flown to tell her
that the Senora had just dragged the Senorita Ea
mona up the garden-walk, and shoved her into her

212 RAMON A.

room and locked the door, and that it was because
she had caught her with Alessandro at the washing-
stones, Marda first crossed herself in sheer mechanical
fashion at the shock of the story, and then cuffed
Margarita's ears for telling her.

t( 1 11 take the head off your neck, if you say that
aloud again ! Whatever 's come to the Senora ! Forty
years I 've lived under this roof, and I never saw her
lift a hand to a living creature yet. You 're out of
your senses, child ! " she said, all the time gazing fear
fully towards the room.

" You '11 see whether I am out of my senses or
not," retorted Margarita, and ran back to the dining-
room. And after the diuing-roorn door was shut,
and the unhappy pretence of a supper had begun, old
Marda had herself crept softly to the Senorita's door
and listened, and heard Eamona sobbing as if her
heart would break. Then she knew that what Mar
garita had said must be true, and her faithful soul
was in sore straits what to think. The Senorita mis-
demean herself ! Never ! Whatever happened, it
was not that ! There was some horrible mistake
somewhere. Kneeling at the keyhole, she had called
cautiously to Eamona, " Oh, my lamb, what is it ? "
But Ramona had not heard her, and the danger was
too great of remaining ; so scrambling up with diffi
culty from her rheumatic knees, the old woman had
hobbled back to the kitchen as much in the dark
as before, and, by a curiously illogical consequence,
crosser than ever to her daughter. All the next day
she watched for herself, and could not but see that
all appearances bore out Margarita's statements.
Alessandro's sudden departure had been a tremen
dous corroboration of the story. Not one of the men
had had an inkling of it ; Juan Canito, Luigo, both
alike astonished ; no word left, no message sent ;
only Seiior Felipe had said carelessly to Juan Can,

213

after breakfast . * You '11 have to look after things
yourself for a few days, Juan. Alessandro has gone
to Temecula."

" For a few days ! " exclaimed Margarita, sarcas
tically, when this was repeated to her. " That 's easy
said ! If Alessandro Assis is seen here again, I '11 eat
my head ! He 's played his last tune on the south
veranda, I wager you."

But when at supper-time of this same eventful
day the Senora was heard, as she passed the Seno-
rita's door, to say in her ordinary voice, "Are you
ready for supper, Ramona ? " and Ramona was seen
to come out and walk by the Senora's side to the
dining-room ; silent, to be sure, — but then that was
no strange thing, the Senorita always was more silent
in the Senora's presence, — when Marda, standing
in the court-yard, feigning to be feeding her chickens,
but keeping a close eye on the passage-ways, saw
this, she was relieved, and thought : " It 's only a
dispute there has been. There will be disputes in
families sometimes. It is none of our affair. All
is settled now."

And Margarita, standing in the dining-room,
when she saw them all coming in as usual, — the
Senora, Felipe, Ramona, — no change, even to her
scrutinizing eye, in anybody's face, was more sur
prised than she had been for many a day ; and began
to think again, as she had more than once since
this tragedy began, that she must have dreamed
much that she remembered.

But surfaces are deceitful, and eyes see little.
Considering its complexity, the fineness and deli
cacy of its mechanism, the results attainable by the
human eye seem far from adequate to the expendi
ture put upon it. We have nattered ourselves by
inventing proverbs of comparison in matter of blind
ness, — " blind as a bat," for instance. It would be

214 Jt.UTONA.

safe to say that there cannot be found in the animal
kingdom a bat, or any other creature, so blind in its
own range of circumstance and connection, as the
greater majority of human beings are in the bosoms
of their families. Tempers strain and recover, hearts
break and heal, strength falters, fails, and comes near
to giving way altogether, every day, without being
noted by the closest lookers-on.

Before night of this second day since the trouble
had burst like a storm-cloud on the peaceful Moreno
household, everything had so resumed the ordinary
expression and routine, that a shrewder observer and
reasouer than Margarita might well be excused for
doubting if any serious disaster could have occurred to
any one. Senor Felipe sauntered about in his usual
fashion, smoking his cigarettes, or lay on his bed in
the veranda, dozing. The Senora went her usual
rounds of inspection, fed her birds, spoke to every
one in her usual tone, sat in her carved chair with
her hands folded, gazing out on the southern sky.
Kainona busied herself with her usual duties, dusted
the chapel, put fresh flowers before all the Madonnas,
and then sat down at her embroidery. Eamona had
been for a long time at work on a beautiful altar-
cloth for the chapel. It was to have been a present
to the Senora. It was nearly done. As she held up
the frame in which it was stretched, and looked at
the delicate tracery of the pattern, she sighed. It
had been with a mingled feeling of interest and hope
lessness that she had for months been at work on it,
often saying to herself, " She won't care much for it,
beautiful as it 'is, just because I did it ; but Father
'Salvierderra will be pleased when he sees it."

Now, as she wove the fine threads in and out, she
thought : " She will never let it be used on the altar.
I wonder if I could any way get it to Father Salvier
derra, at Santa Barbara. I would like to give it to

RAMON A. 215

him. I will ask Alessandro. I 'm sure the Senora
would never use it, and it would be a shame to leave
it here. I shall take it with me." But as she thought
these things, her face was unruffled. A strange com
posure had settled on Eamona. " Only four days ;
only four days : I can bear anything for four days ! "
these words were coming and going in her mind like
refrains of songs which haunt one's memory and will
riot be still. She saw that Felipe looked anxiously
at her, but she answered his inquiring looks always
with a gentle smile. It was evident that the Senora
did not intend that she and Felipe should have any
private conversation; but that did not so much
matter. After all, there was not so much to be said.
Felipe knew all. She could tell him nothing ; Felipe
had acted for the best, as he thought, in sending
Alessandro away till the heat of the Senora's anger
should have spent itself.

After her first dismay at suddenly learning that
Alessandro had gone, had passed, she had reflected
that it was just as well. He would come back pre
pared to take her with him. How, or where, she did
not know ; but she would go with no question.
Perhaps she would not even bid the Senora good-by ;
she wondered how that would arrange itself, and
how far Alessandro would have to take her, to
find a priest to marry them. It was a terrible thing
to have to do, to go out of a home in such a way :
no wedding — no wedding clothes — no friends — to
go unmarried, and journey to a priest's house, to
have the ceremony performed ; " but it is not my fault,"
said Eamona to herself ; " it is hers. She drives me
to do it. If it is wrong, the blame will be hers.
Father Salvierderra would gladly come here and marry
us, if she would send for him. I wish we could go to
him, Alessandro and I ; perhaps we can. I would not
be afraid to ride so far ; we could do it in two days."

216 TM/Vfl.V/1.

The more Eamona thought of this, the more it ap
peared to her the natural thing for them to do. " He
will be on our side, I know he will," she thought.
" He always liked Alessandro, and he loves me."

It was strange how little bitterness toward the
Senora was in the girl's mind ; how comparatively
little she thought of her. Her heart was too full of
Alessandro and of their future ; and it had never been
Earnona's habit to dwell on the Sefiora in her thoughts.
As from her childhood up she had accepted the
fact of the Senora's coldness toward her, so now she
accepted her injustice and opposition as part of tlte
nature of things, and not to be altered.

During all these hours, during the coming and
going of these crowds of fears, sorrows, memories,
anticipations in Ramona's heart, all that there was
to be seen to the eye was simply a calm, quiet girl,
sitting on the veranda, diligently working at her lace-
frame. Even Felipe was deceived by her calmness,
and wondered what it meant, — if it could be that
she was undergoing the change that his mother
had thought possible, and designated as coming
"to her senses." Even Felipe did not know the
steadfast fibre of the girl's nature ; neither did he
realize what a bond had grown between her and Ales
sandro. In fact, he sometimes wondered of what
this bond had been made. He had himself seen the
greater part of their intercourse with each other;
nothing could have been farther removed from any
thing like love-making. There had been no crises of
incident, or marked moments of experience such as
in Felipe's imaginations of love were essential to the
fulness of its growth. This is a common mistake on
the part of those who have never felt love's true bonds.
Once in those chains, one perceives that they are not
of the sort full forged in a day. They are made as
the <vreat iron cables are made, on which bridges are

RAMONA. 217

swung across the widest water-channels, — not of sin
gle huge rods, or bars, which would be stronger, per
haps, to look at ; but of myriads of the finest wires,
each one by itself so fine, so frail, it would barely
hold a child's kite in the wind : by hundreds, hun
dreds of thousands of such, twisted, re-twisted to
gether, are made the mighty cables, which do not any
more swerve from their place in the air, under the
weight and jar of the ceaseless traffic and tread «f
two cities, than the solid earth swerves under the
same ceaseless weight and jar. Such cables do not
break.

Even Eamona herself would have found it hard to
tell why she thus loved Alessandro ; how it began, or
by what it grew. It had not been a sudden adoration,
like his passion for her ; it was, in the beginning, sim
ply a response ; but now it was as strong a love as
his, — as strong, and as unchangeable. The Senora's
harsh words had been like a forcing-house air to
it, and the sudden knowledge of the fact of her
own Indian descent seemed to her like a revelation,
pointing out the path in which destiny called her to
walk. She thrilled with pleasure at the thought of
the joy with which Alessandro would hear this, — the
joy and the surprise. She imagined to herself, in
hundreds of ways, the time, place, and phrase in which
she would tell him. She could not satisfy herself as
to the best ; as to which would give keenest pleasure
to him and to her. She would tell him, as soon as
she saw him ; it should be her first word of greeting.
No ! There would be too much of trouble and embar
rassment then. She would wait till they were far
away, till they were alone, in the wilderness ; and
then she would turn to him, and say, " Alessandro,
my people are your people !" Or she would wait, and
keep her secret until she had reached Temecula, and
they had begun their lii'e there, and Alessandro had

218 RAMON A.

been astonished to see how readily and kindly she took
to all the ways of the Indian village; and then, when
he expressed some such emotion, she would quietly
say, " But I too am an Indian, Alessandro ! "

Strange, sad bride's dreams these ; but they made
Eamona's heart beat with happiness as she dreamed
them.

XIV.

THE first day had gone, it was near night of the
second, and not a word had passed between Felipe
and Rarnona, except in the presence of the Senora.
It would have been beautiful to see, if it had not been
so cruel a thing, the various and devious methods by
which the Senora had brought this about. Felipe,
oddly enough, was more restive under it than Ramona.
She had her dreams. He had nothing but his rest
less consciousness that he had not done for her what
he hoped ; that he must seem to her to have been dis
loyal ; this, and a continual wonder what she could
be planning or expecting which made her so placid,
kept Felipe in a fever of unrest, of which his mother
noted every sign, and redoubled her vigilance.

Felipe thought perhaps he could speak to Eamona
in the night, through her window. But the August
heats were fierce now ; everybody slept with wide-
open windows ; the Senora was always wakeful ; if she
should chance to hear him thus holding secret con
verse with Ramona, it would indeed make bad matters
worse. Nevertheless^ he decided to try it. At the
first sound of his footsteps on the veranda floor, "My
son, are you ill ? Can I do anything ? " came from
the Senora's window. She had not been asleep at all.
It would take more courage than Felipe possessed,
to try that plan again; and he lay on his veranda
bed, this afternoon, tossing about with sheer impa
tience at his baffled purpose, Eamona sat at the foot
of the bed, taking the last stitches in the nearly com
pleted altar-cloth. The Senora sat in her usual seat,

220 RAMONA.

dozing, with her head thrown back. It was very hot ;
a sultry south-wind, with dust from the desert, had
been blowing all day, and every living creature was
more or less prostrated by it.

As the Senora's eyes closed, a sudden thought struck
Felipe. Taking out a memorandum-book in which he
kept his accounts, he began rapidly writing. Look
ing up, and catching Eamona's eye, he made a sign
to her that it was for her. She glanced apprehen
sively at the Senora. She was asleep. Presently
Felipe, folding the note, and concealing it in his hand,
rose, and walked towards Ramona's window, Ramona
terrifiedly watching him ; the sound of Felipe's steps
roused the Senora, who sat up instantly, and gazed
about her with that indescribable expression pecul
iar to people who hope they have not been asleep,
but know they have. " Have I been asleep ? " she
asked.

" About one minute, mother," answered Felipe, who
was leaning, as he spoke, against Ramona's open
window, his arms crossed behind him. Stretching
them out, and back and forth a few times, yawning
idly, he said, " This heat is intolerable ! " Then he
sauntered leisurely down the veranda steps into the
garden-walk, and seated himself on the bench under
the trellis there.

The note had been thrown into . Ramona's room.
She was hot and cold with fear lest she might not be
able to get it unobserved. What if the Senora were
to go first into the room ! She hardly dared look at
her. But fortune is not always on the side of tyrants.
The Senora was fast dozing off again, relieved that
Felipe was out of speaking distance of Ramona. As
soon as her eyes were again shut, Ramona rose to go.
The Senora opened her eyes. Ramona was crossing
the threshold of the door; she was going into the
house. Good ! Still farther away from Felipe.

RAMON A. 221

" Are you going to your room, Ramona ? " said the
Senora.

" I was," replied Eamona, alarmed. " Did you want
me here ? "

" No," said the Senora ; and she closed her eyes
again.

In a second more the note was safe in Eamona's
hands.

" Dear Ramona," Felipe had written, " I am dis
tracted because I cannot speak with you alone. Can
you think of any way ? I want to explain things to
you. I am afraid you do not understand. Don't be
unhappy. Alessandro will surely be back in four
days. I want to help you all I can, but you saw I
could not do much. Nobody will hinder your doing
what you please ; but, dear, I wish you would not go
away from us ! "

Tearing the paper into small fragments, Ramona
thrust them into her bosom, to be destroyed later.
Then looking out of the window, and seeing that the
Senora was now in a sound sleep, she ventured to write
a reply to Felipe, though when she would find a safe
opportunity to give it to him, there was no telling.
" Thank you, dear Felipe. Don't be anxious. I am
not unhappy. I understand all about it. But I must
go away as soon as Alessandro comes." Hiding this
also safe in her bosom, she went back to the veranda.
Felipe rose, and walked toward the steps. Ramona,
suddenly bold, stooped, and laid her note on the sec
ond step. Again the tired eyes of the Senora opened.
They had not been shut five minutes ; Ramona was
at her work ; Felipe was coming up the steps from
the garden. He nodded laughingly to his mother,
and laid his finger on his lips. All was well. The
Senora dozed again. Her nap had cost her more than
she would ever know. This one secret interchange
between Felipe and Ramona then, thus making, as

222 RAAIONA.

it were, common cause with each other as against her,
and in fear of her, was a step never to be recalled, —
a step whose significance could scarcely be overesti
mated. Tyrants, great and small, are apt to overlook
such possibilities as this ; to forget the momentousness
which the most trivial incident may assume when
forced into false proportions and relations. Tyranny
can make liars and cheats out of the honestest souls.
It is done oftener than any except close students of
human nature realize. When kings and emperors do
this, the world cries out with sympathy, and holds
the plotters more innocent than the tyrant who pro
voked the plot. It is Eussia that stands branded in
men's thoughts, and not Siberia.

The Senora had a Siberia of her own, and it was
there that Eamona was living in these days. The
Senora would have been surprised to know how little
the girl felt the cold. To be - sure, it was not as if
she had ever felt warmth in the Senora' s presence ;
yet between the former chill and this were many
degrees, and except for her new life, and new love,
and hope in the thought of Alessandro, Eamona could
not have borne it for a day.

The fourth day came ; it seemed strangely longer
than the others had. All day Eamona watched and
listened. Felipe, too ; for, knowing what Alessandro's
impatience would be, he had, in truth, looked for him
on the previous night. The horse he rode was a fleet
one, and would have made the journey with ease in
half the time. But Felipe reflected that there might
be many things for Alessandro to arrange at Temec-
ula. He would doubtless return prepared to take
Eamona back with him, in case that proved the only
alternative left them. Felipe grew wretched as his
fancy dwelt on the picture of Eamona's future. He
had been in the Temecula village. He knew its
poverty ; the thought of Eaniona there was monstrous.

RAMONA. 223

To the iudoleiit, ease-loving Felipe it was incredible
that a girl reared as llamona had been, could for a
moment contemplate leading the life of a poor labor
ing man's wife. He could not conceive of love's mak
ing one undertake any such life. Felipe had much
to learn of love. Night came ; no Alessandro. Till
the darkness settled down, llamona sat, watching the
willows. When she could no longer see, she listened.
The Senora, noting all, also listened. She was uneasy
as to the next stage of affairs, but she would not
speak. Nothing should induce her to swerve from
the line of conduct on which she had determined. It
was the full of the moon. When the first broad beam
of its light came over the hill, and Hooded the garden
and the white front of the little chapel, just as it had
done on that first night when Alessandro watched
with Felipe on the veranda, Eamona pressed her face
against the window-panes, and gazed out into the
garden. At eacli flickering motion of the shadows
she saw the form of a man approaching. Again and
again she saw it. Again and again the breeze died,
and the shadow ceased. It was near morning before,
weary, sad, she crept to bed ; but not to sleep. With
wide-open, anxious eyes, she still watched and listened.
Never had the thought once crossed her mind that
Alessandro might not come at the time Felipe had
said. In her childlike simplicity she had accepted
this as unquestioningly as she had accepted other facts
in her life. Now that he did not come, unreasoning
and unfounded terror took possession of her, and she
asked herself continually, " Will he ever come ! They
sent him away ; perhaps he will be too proud to come
back ! " Then faith would return, and saying to her
self, " He would never, never forsake me ; he knows
I have no one in the whole world but him ; he knows
how I love him," she would regain composure, and
remind herself of the many detentions which might

224 RAMONA.

have prevented his coming at the time set. Spite of all,
however, she was heavy at heart ; and at breakfast her
anxious eyes and absent look were sad to see. They
hurt Felipe. Too well he knew what it meant. He
also was anxious. The Senora saw it in his face, and
it vexed her. The girl might well pine, and be mor
tified if her lover did not appear. But why should
Felipe disquiet himself ? The Senora disliked it. It
was a bad symptom. There might be trouble ahead
yet. There was, indeed, trouble ahead, — of a sort the
Senora's imaginings had not pictured.

Another day passed ; another night ; another, and
another. One week now since Alessandro, as he
leaped on his horse, had grasped Felipe's hand, and
said : " You will tell the Senorita ; you will make
sure that she understands why I go ; and in four days
I will be back." One week, and he had not come.
The three who were watching and wondering looked
covertly into each other's faces, each longing to know
what the others thought.

Ramona was wan and haggard. She had scarcely
slept. The idea had taken possession of her that
Alessandro was dead. On the sixth and seventh days
she had walked each afternoon far down the river
road, by which he would be sure to come ; down the
meadows, and by the cross-cut, out to the highway ;
at each step straining her tearful eyes into the dis
tance, — the cruel, blank, silent distance. She had
come back after dark, whiter and more wan than she
went out. As she sat at the supper-table, silent,
making no feint of eating, only drinking glass after
glass of milk, in thirsty haste, even Margarita pitied
'her. But the Senora did not. She thought the best
thing which could happen, would be that the Indian
should never come back. Eamona would recover
from it in a little while ; the mortification would be
the worst thing, but even that, time would heal. She

RAMONA. 225

wondered that the girl had not more pride than to let
her wretchedness be so plainly seen. She herself
would have died before she would go about with such
a woe-begone face, for a whole household to see and
gossip about.

On the morning of the eighth day, Eamona, desper
ate, waylaid Felipe, as he was going down the veranda
steps. The Sefiora was in the garden, and saw them ;
but Eamona did not care. " Felipe ! " she cried, " I
must, 1 must speak to you ! Do you think Alessandro
is dead ? What else could keep him from coming ? "
Her lips were dry, her cheeks scarlet, her voice husky.
A few more days of this, and she would be in a brain
fever, Felipe thought, as he looked compassionately
at her.

" Oh, no, no, dear ! Do not think that ! " he replied.
" A thousand things might have kept him."

" Ten thousand things would not ! Nothing could ! "
said Eamona. " I know he is dead. Can't you send
a messenger, Felipe, and see ? "

The Sencra was walking toward them. She over
heard the last words. Looking toward Felipe, no
more regarding Eamona than if she had not been
within sight or hearing, the Senora said, " It seems
to me that would not be quite consistent with dignity.
How does it strike you, Felipe? If you thought best,
we might spare a man as soon as the vintage is done,
I suppose."

Eamona walked away. The vintage would not be
over for a week. There were several vineyards yet
which had not been touched ; every hand on the
place was hard at work, picking the grapes, treading
them out in tubs, emptying the juice into stretched
raw-hides swung from cross-beams in a long shed.
In the willow copse the brandy-still was in full
blast ; it took one man to watch it ; this was Juan
Can's favorite work ; for reasons of his own he liked

15

226 RAMCNA.

best to do it alone ; and now that he could no longer
tread grapes in the tubs, he had a better chance
for uninterrupted work at the still. " No ill but
has its good," he thought sometimes, as he lay com-,
fortably stretched out in the shade, smoking his pipe
day after day, and breathing the fumes of the fiery
brandy.

As Eamona disappeared in the doorway, the Senora,
coming close to Felipe, and laying her hand on his arm,
said in a confidential tone, nodding her head in the
direction in which Eamona had vanished : " She looks
badly, Felipe. I don't know what we can do. We
surely cannot send to summon back a lover we do
not wish her to marry, can we ? It is very perplex
ing. Most unfortunate, every way. What do you
think, my son ? " There was almost a diabolical art
in the manner in which the Senora could, by a single
phrase or question, plant in a person's mind the pre
cise idea she wished him to think he had originated
himself.

" No ; of course we can't send for him," replied
Felipe, angrily ; " unless it is to send for him to
marry her ; I wish he had never set foot on the place.
I am sure I don't know what to do. Eamona's looks
frighten me. I believe she will die."

" I cannot wish Alessandro had never set foot on
the place," said the Senora, gently, " for I feel that I
owe your life to him, my Felipe ; and he is not to
blame for Eamona's conduct. You need not fear her
dying. She may be ill ; but people do not die of love
like hers for Alessandro."

" Of what kind do they die, mother ? " asked Felipe,
impatiently.

The Senora looked reproachfully at him. " Not
often of any," she said ; " but certainly not of a sud
den passion for a person in every way beneath them,
in position, in education, in all points which are

RAMON A. 227

essential to congeniality of tastes or association of
life."

The Senora spoke calmly, with no excitement, as
if she were discussing an abstract case. Sometimes,
when she spoke like this, Felipe for the moment felt
as if she were entirely right, as if it were really a
disgraceful thin*' in Ramona to have thus loved Ales-

o o

sandro. It could not be gainsaid that there was this
gulf of which she spoke. Alessandro was undeniably
Ramona' s inferior in position, education, in all the
external matters of life ; but in nature, in true nobil
ity of soul, no ! Alessandro was no man's inferior in
these ; and in capacity to love, — Felipe sometimes
wondered whether he had ever known Alessandro's
equal in that. This thought had occurred to him
more than once, as from his sick-bed he had, unob
served, studied the expression with which Alessandro
gazed at Eamona. But all this made no difference in
the perplexity of the present dilemma, in the embar
rassment of his and his mother's position now. Send
a messenger to ask why Alessandro did not return !
Not even if he had been an accepted and publicly
recognized lover, would Felipe do that ! Ramona
ought to have more pride. She ought of herself to
know that. And when Felipe, later in the day, saw
Ramona again, he said as much to her. He said it
as gently as he could ; so gently that she did not
at 'first comprehend his idea. It was so foreign, so
incompatible with her faith, how could she ?

When she did understand, she said slowly: "You
mean that it will not do to send to find out if Ales
sandro is dead, because it will look as if I wished him
to marry me whether he wished it or not ? " and she
fixed her eyes on Felipe's, with an expression he
could not fathom.

"Yes, dear," he answered, "something like that,
though you put it harshly."

228 RAMONA.

" Is it not true," she persisted, " that is what you
mean ? "

Reluctantly Felipe admitted that it was.

Ramona was silent for some moments ; then she
said, speaking still more slowly, " If you feel like that,
we had better never talk about Alessandro again. I
suppose it is not possible that you should know, as
I do, that nothing but his being dead would keep him
from coming back. Thanks, dear Felipe ; " and after
this she did not speak again of Alessandro.

Days went by ; a week. The vintage was over.
The Senora wondered if Ramona would now ask
again for a messenger to go to Temecula. Almost
even the Senora relented, as she looked into the girl's
white and wasted face, as she sat silent, her hands
folded in her lap, her eyes fixed on the willows. The
altar-cloth was done, folded and laid away. It would
never hang in the Moreno chapel. It was promised,
in Ramona's mind, to Father Salvierderra. She had
resolved to go to him ; if he, a feeble old man, could
walk all the way between Santa Barbara and their
home, she could surely do the same. She would not
lose the way. There were not many roads ; she could
ask. The convent, the bare thought of which had
been so temble to Ramona fourteen days ago, when
the Senora had threatened her with it, now seemed a
heavenly refuge, the only shelter she craved. There
was a school for orphans attached to the convent at
San Juan Bautista, she knew ; she would ask the
Father to let her go there, and she would spend the
rest of her life in prayer, and in teaching the orphan
girls. As hour after hour she sat revolving this plan,
her fancy projected itself so vividly into the future,
that she lived years of her life. She felt herself mid
dle-aged, old. She saw the procession of nuns, going
to vespers, leading the children by the hand; herself
wrinkled and white-haired, walking between two of

RAMONA. 229

the little ones. The picture gave her peace. As
soon as she grew a little stronger, she would set off
on her journey to the Father ; she could not go just
yet, she was too weak ; her feet trembled if she did
but walk to the foot of the garden. Alessaudro was
dead ; there could be no doubt of that. He was
buried in that little walled graveyard of which he
had told her. Sometimes she thought she would try
to go there and see his grave, perhaps see his father ;
if Alessandro had told him of her, the old man would
be glad to see her ; perhaps, after all, her work might
lie there, among Alessandro's people. But this looked
hard ; she had not courage for it ; shelter and rest
were what she wanted, — the sound of the Church's
prayers, and the Father's blessing every day. The
convent was the best.

She thought she was sure that Alessandro was dead >
but she was not, for she still listened, still watched.
Each day she walked out on the river road, and sat
waiting till dusk. At last came a day when she could
not go ; her strength failed her. She lay all day on
her bed. To the Senora, who asked frigidly if she
were ill, she answered • " No, Senora, I do not think
I am ill. I have no pain, but I cannot get up. I
shall be better to-morrow."

" I will send you strong broth and a medicine," the
Senora said ; and sent her both by the hands of Mar
garita, whose hatred and jealousy broke down at the
first sight of Ramona's face on the pillow ; it looked
so much thinner and sharper there than it had when
she was sitting up. " Oh, Senorita ! Senorita ! " she
cried, in a tone of poignant grief, " are you going to
die ? Forgive me, forgive me ! "

" I have nothing to forgive you, Margarita," replied
Eamona, raising herself on her elbow, and lifting her
eyes kindly to the girl's face as she took the broth
from her hands. " I do not know why you ask me
to forgive you."

230 RAMON A.

Margarita flung herself on her knees by the bed,
in a passion of weeping. " Oh, but you do know,
Senorita, you do know ! Forgive me ! "

" No, I know nothing," replied Ramona ; " but if
you know anything, it is all forgiven. I am not go
ing to die, Margarita. I am going away," she added,
after a second's pause. Her inmost instinct told her
that she could trust Margarita now. Alessandro be
ing dead, Margarita would no longer be her enemy,
and Margarita could perhaps help her. " I am going
away, Margarita, as soon as I feel a little stronger.
I am going to a convent ; but the Senora does not
know. You will not tell ? "

" No, Senorita ! " whispered Margarita, — thinking
in her heart, " Yes, she is going away, but it will be
with the angels." — " No, Senorita, I will not tell. I
will do anything you want me to."

"Thanks, Margarita mia," replied Ramona. "I
thought you would ; " and she lay back on her pillow,
and closed her eyes, looking so much more like death
than like life that Margarita's tears flowed faster
than before, arid she ran to her mother, sobbing out,
" Mother, mother ! the Senorita is ill to death. I
am sure she is. She has taken to her bed ; and she
is as white as Sefior/Felipe was at the worst of the
fever."

"Ay," said old Marda, who had seen all this for
days back ; " ay, she has wasted away, this last week,
like one in a fever, sure enough ; I have seen it. It
must be she is starving herself to death."

" Indeed, she has not eaten for ten days, — hardly
since that day ; " and Margarita and her mother ex
changed looks. It was not necessary to further define
the day.

" Juan Can says he thinks he will never be seen
here again," continued Margarita.

" The saints grant it, then," said Marda, hotly, " if

RAMONA. 231

it is he has cost the Senorita all this ! I am that
turned about in my head with it all, that I've no
thoughts to think ; but plain enough it is, he is mixed
up with whatever 't is has gone wrong."

" I could tell what it is," said Margarita, her old
pertness coming uppermost for a moment ; " but I 've
got no more to say, now the Senorita's lying on her
bed, with the face she 's got. It 's enough to break
your heart to look at her. I could just go down on
my knees to her for all I 've said ; and I will, and
to Saint Francis too ! She 's going to be with him
before long ; I know she is."

" No," said the wiser, older Marda. " She is not
so ill as you think. She is young. It 's the heart 's
gone out of her ; that 's all. I 've been that way my
self. People are, when they 're young."

" I 'm young ! " retorted Margarita. " I 've never
been that way."

" There 's many a mile to the end of the road, my
girl," said Marda, significantly ; " and ' It 's ill boast
ing the first day out,' was a proverb when I was your
age !"

Marda had never been much more than half-way
fond of this own child of hers. Their natures were
antagonistic. Traits which, in Margarita's father,
had embittered many a day of Marda's early married
life, were perpetually cropping out in Margarita,
making between the mother and daughter a barrier
which even parental love was not always strong
enough to surmount. And, as was inevitable, this
antagonism was constantly leading to things which
seemed to Margarita, and in fact were, unjust and ill-
founded.

" She 's always flinging out at me, whatever I do,"
thought Margarita. " I know one thing ; I '11 never
tell her what the Senorita's told me; never, — not
till after she 's gone."

2D2 RAMONA.

A sudden suspicion flashed into Margarita's mind.
She seated herself on the bench outside the kitchen
door, to wrestle with it. What if it were not to a
convent at all, but to Alessandro, that the Senorita
meant to go ! No ; that was preposterous. If it
had been that, she would have gone with him in the
outset. Nobody who was plotting to run away with a
lover ever wore such a look as the Senorita wore now.
Margarita dismissed the thought ; yet it left its trace.
She would be more observant for having had it ; her
resuscitated affection for her young mistress was not
yet so strong that it would resist the assaults of
jealousy, if that passion were to be again aroused in
her fiery soul. Though she had never been deeply
in love with Alessandro herself, she had been enough
so, and she remembered him vividly enough, to feel
yet a sharp emotion of displeasure at the recollec
tion of his devotion to the Senorita. Now that the
Senorita seemed to be deserted, unhappy, prostrated,
she had no room for anything but pity , for her ;
but let Alessandro come on the stage again, and
all would be changed. The old hostility would re
turn. It was but a dubious sort of ally, after
all, that Eamona had so unexpectedly secured in
Margarita. She might prove the sharpest of broken
reeds.

It was sunset of the eighteenth day since Alessan-
dro's departure. Eamona had lain for four days well-
nigh motionless on her bed. She herself began to
think she must be going to die. Her mind seemed
to be vacant of all thought. She did not even sorrow
for Alessandro's death ; she seemed torpid, body and
soul. Such prostrations as these are Nature's en
forced rests. It is often only by help of them that
cur bodies tide over crises, strains, in which, if we
continued to battle, we should be slain.

As llamoua lay half unconscious, — neither awake

RAMON A. 233

nor yet asleep, — on this evening, she was suddenly
aware of a vivid impression produced upon her ; it
was not sound, it was not sight. She was alone ;
the house was still as death ; the warm September
twilight silence reigned outside. She sat up in her
bed, intent — half alarmed — half glad — bewildered
— alive. What had happened ? Still there was no
sound, no stir. The twilight was fast deepening ;
not a breath of air moving. Gradually her bewil
dered senses and faculties awoke from their long-
dormant condition ; she looked around the room ;
even the walls seemed revivified ; she clasped her
hands, and leaped from the bed. " Alessandro is not
dead ! " she said aloud ; and she laughed hysterically.
" He is not dead ! " she repeated. " He is not dead !
He is somewhere near ! "

With quivering hands she dressed, and stole out of
the house. After the first few seconds she found her
self strangely strong ; she did not tremble ; her feet
trod firm on the ground. " Oh, miracle ! " she thought,
as she hastened down the garden-walk ; " I am well
again ! Alessandro is near ! " So vivid was the im
pression, that when she reached the willows and
found the spot silent, vacant, as when she had last
sat there, hopeless, broken-hearted, she experienced a
revulsion of disappointment. " Not here ! " she cried ;
" not here ! " and a swift fear shook her. " Am I
mad ? Is it this way, perhaps, people lose their
senses, when they are as I have been ! "

But the young, strong blood was running swift in
her veins. No ! this was no madness ; rather a
newly discovered power ; a fulness of sense ; a reve
lation. Alessandro was near.

Swiftly she walked down the river road. The
farther she went, the keener grew her expectation,
her sense of Alessandro's nearness. In her present
mood she \vould have walked on and on, even to

234 RAMONA.

Temecula itself, sure that she was at each step draw
ing nearer to Alessandro. As she approached the
second willow copse, which lay perhaps a quarter of
a mile west of the first, she saw the figure of a man,
standing, leaning against one of the trees. She halted.
It could not be Alessandro. He would not have
paused for a moment so near the house where he was
to find her. She was afraid to go on. It was late
to meet a stranger in this lonely spot. The figure was
strangely still; so still that, as she peered through
the dusk, she half fancied it might be an optical
illusion. She advanced a few steps, hesitatingly,
then stopped. As she did so, the man advanced a few
steps, then stopped. As he came out from the shad
ows of the trees, she saw that he was of Alessandro's
height. She quickened her steps, then suddenly
stopped again. What did this mean ? It could not
be Alessandro. Ramona wrung her hands in agony
of suspense. An almost unconquerable instinct urged
her forward ; but terror held her back. After stand
ing irresolute for some minutes, she turned to walk
back to the house, saying, " I must not run the risk
of its being a stranger. If it is Alessandro, he will
come."

But her feet seemed to refuse to move in the
opposite direction. Slower and slower she walked
for a few paces, then turned again. The man had
returned to his former place, and stood as at first,
leaning against the tree.

" It may be a messenger from him," she said ; " a
messenger who has been told not to come to the
house until after dark."

Her mind was made up. She quickened her pace
to a run. A few moments more brought her so near
that she could see distinctly. It was — yes, it was
Alessandro. He did not see her. His face was turned
partially away, his head resting against the tree ; he

RAMONA. 235

must be ill. Eamona flew, rather than ran. In a
moment more, Alessandro had heard the light steps,
turned, saw Eamona, and, with a cry, bounded for
ward, and they were clasped in each other's arms
before they had looked in each other's faces. Ea
mona spoke first. Disengaging herself gently, and
looking up, she began : " Alessandro — " But at
the first sight of his face she shrieked. Was this
Alessandro, this haggard, emaciated, speechless man,
who gazed at her with hollow eyes, full of misery,
and no joy ! " 0 God," cried Eamona, " you have
been ill ! you are ill ! My God, Alessandro, what
is it?"

Alessandro passed his hand slowly over his fore
head, as if trying to collect his thoughts before speak
ing, all the while keeping his eyes fixed on Eamona,
with the same anguished look, convulsively holding
both her hands in his.

" Senorita," he said, " my Senorita ! " Then he
stopped. His tongue seemed to refuse him utter
ance; and this voice, — this strange, hard, unresonant
voice, — whose voice was it ? Not Alessandro's.

" My Senorita," he began again, " I could not go
without one sight of your face ; but when I was here,
I had not courage to go near the house. If you had
not come, I should have gone back without seeing
you."

Eamona heard these words in fast-deepening terror.
What did they mean ? Her look seemed to suggest
a new thought to Alessandro.

" Heavens, Senorita ! " he cried, " have you not
heard ? Do you not know what has happened ? "

" I know nothing, love," answered Eamona. " I
have heard nothing since you went away. For ten
days I have been sure you were dead ; but to-night
something told me that you were near, and I came to
meet you."

23G RAMONA.

At the first words of Kamona's sentence, Alessan-
dro threw his arms around her again. As she said
"love," his whole frame shook with emotion.

" My Senorita ! " he whispered, " my Senorita ! how
shall I tell you ! How shall I tell you ! "

" What is there to tell, Alessandro ? " she said.
" I am afraid of nothing, now that you are here, and
not dead, as I thought."

But Alessandro did not speak. It seemed impos
sible. At last, straining her closer to his breast, he
cried : " Dearest Senorita ! I feel as if I should die
when I tell you, — I have no home; my father is
dead ; my people are driven out of their village. I
am only a beggar now, Senorita ; like those you used
to feed and pity in Los Angeles convent ! " As he
spoke the last words, he reeled, and, supporting him
self against the tree, added : " I am not strong,
Senorita ; we have been starving."

Kamona's face did not reassure him. Even in the
dusk he could see its look of incredulous horror. He
misread it.

" I only came to look at you once more," he con
tinued. " I will go now. May the saints bless you,
my Senorita, always. I think the Virgin sent you to
me to-night. I should never have seen your face if
you had not come."

While he was speaking, Eamona had buried her
face in his bosom. Lifting it now, she said, " Did
you mean to leave me to think you were dead, Ales
sandro ? "

" I thought that the news about our village must
fhave reached you," he said, " and that you would
"know I had no home, and could not come, to seem to
remind you of what you had said. Oh, Senorita, it was
little enough I had before to give you ! I don't know
how I dared to believe that you could come to be
with me ; but I loved you so much, I had thought of

RAMONA. 237

many things I could do ; and — " lowering his voice
and speaking almost sullenly — "it is the saints, I
believe, who have punished me thus for having re
solved to leave my people, and take all I had for my
self and you. Now they have left me nothing ; " and
he groaned.

"Who?" cried Eamona. "Was there a battle?
Was your father killed ? " She was trembling with
horror.

" No," answered Alessandro. " There was no bat
tle. There would have been, if I had had my way ;
but my father implored me not to resist. He said it
would only make it worse for us in the end. The
sheriff, too, he begged me to let it all go on peaceably,
and help him keep the people quiet. He felt terribly
to have to do it. It was Mr. Eothsaker, from San
Diego. We had often worked for him on his ranch.
He knew all about us. Don't you recollect, Seiiorita,
I told you about him, — how fair he always was, and
kind too ? He has the biggest wheat-ranch in Cajon ;
we Ve harvested miles and miles of wheat for him.
He said he would have rather died, almost, than have
had it to do ; but if we resisted, he would have to
order his men to shoot. He had twenty men with him.
They thought there would be trouble ; and well they
might, — turning a whole village full of men and
women and children out of their houses, and driving
them off like foxes. If it had been any man but Mr.
Eothsaker, I would have shot him dead, if I had
hung for it ; but I knew if he thought we must go,
there was no help for us."

" But, Alessandro," interrupted Eamona, "I can't
understand. Who was it made Mr. Eothsaker do it ?
Who has the land now ? "

" I don't know who they are," Alessandro replied,
his voice full of anger and scorn. " They 're Ameri
cans, — eight or ten of them. They all got together

238 RAMONA.

and brought a suit, they call it, up in San Francisco ;
and it was decided in the court that they owned all
our land. That was all Mr. Rothsaker could tell
about it. It was the law, he said, and nobody could
go against the law."

" Oh," said Eamona, " that 's the way the Ameri
cans took so much of the Senora's land away from
her. It was in the court up in San Francisco ;
and they decided that miles and miles of her laud,
which the General had always had, was not hers
at all. They said it belonged to the United States
Government."

" They are a pack of thieves and liars, every one
of them ! " cried Alessandro. " They are going to
steal all the land in this country ; we might all just
as well throw ourselves into the sea, and let them
have it. My father has been telling me this for
years. He saw it coming ; but I did not believe
him. I did not think men could be so wicked ; but
he was right. I am glad he is dead. That is the
only thing I have to be thankful for now. One day
I thought he was going to get well, and I prayed to
the Virgin not to let him. I did not want him to
live. He never knew anything clear after they took
hirn out of his house. That was before I got there.
I found him sitting on the ground outside. They
said it was the sun that had turned him crazy ; but
it was not. It was his heart breaking in his bosom.
He would not come out of his house, and the men
lifted him up and carried him out by force, and threw,
him on the ground ; and then they threw out all the
furniture we had ; and when he saw them doing that,
he put his hands up to his head, and called out,
' Alessandro ! Alessandro ! ' and I was not there !
Senorita, they said it was a voice to make the dead
hear, that he called with ; and nobody could stop
him. All that day and all the night he kept on

RAMONA. 239

calling. God ! Sefiorita, I wonder I did not die when
they told me ! When I got there, some one had
built up a little booth of tule over his head, to keep
the sun off. He did not call any more, only for
water, water. That was what made them think the
sun had done it. They did all they could ; but it
was such a dreadful time, nobody could do much ;
the sheriff's men were in great hurry ; they gave no
time. They said the people must all be off in two
days. Everybody was running hither and thither.
Everything out of the houses in piles on the ground.
The people took all the roofs off their houses too.
They were made of the tule reeds ; so they would do
again. Oh, Seriorita, don't ask me to tell you any
more ! It is like death. I can't ! "

Ramona was crying bitterly. She did not know
what to say. What was love, in face of such calam
ity ? What had she to give to a man stricken like
this ?

" Don't weep, Senorita," said Alessandro, drearily.
" Tears kill one, and do no good."

" How long did your father live ? " asked Ramoria,
clasping her arms closer around his neck. They were
sitting on the ground now, and Ramona, yearning
over Alessandro, as if she were the strong one and he
the one to be sheltered, had drawn his head to her
bosom, caressing him as if he had been hers for years.
Nothing could have so clearly shown his enfeebled
and benumbed condition, as the manner in which
he received these caresses, which once would have
made him beside himself with joy. He leaned against
her breast as a child might.

" He ! He died only four days ago. I stayed to
bury him, and then I came away. I have been three
days on the way ; the horse, poor beast, is almost
weaker than I. The Americans took my horse,"
Alessaudro said.

240 RAMON A.

" Took your horse ! " cried Ramona, aghast. " Is
that the law, too ? "

" So Mr. Eothsaker told me. He said the judge had
said he must take enough of our cattle and horses to
pay all it had cost for the suit up in San Francisco.
They did n't reckon the cattle at what they were worth,
I thought ; but they said cattle were selling very low
now. There were not enough in all the village to
pay it, so we had to make it up in horses ; and they
took mine. I was not there the day they drove the
cattle away, or I would have put a ball into Benito's
head before any American should ever have had him
to ride. But I was over in Pachanga with my father.
He would not stir a step for anybody but me ; so I
led him all the way ; and then after he got there he
was so ill I never left him a minute. He did not
know me any more, nor know anything that had
happened. I built a little hut of tule, and lie lay
on the ground till he died. When I put him in his
grave, I was glad."

" In Temecula ? " asked Eamona.

" In Temecula ! " exclaimed Alessandro, fiercely.
" You don't seem to understand, Senorita. We have
no right in Temecula, not even to our graveyard full
of the dead. Mr. Rothsaker warned us all not to be
hanging about there ; for he said the men who were
coming in were a rough set, and they would shoot
any Indian at sight, if they saw him trespassing on
their property."

" Their property ! " ejaculated Ramona.

" Yes ; it is theirs," said Alessandro, doggedly.
" That is the law. They Ve got all the papers to
show it. That is what my father always said, — if
the Sefior Valdez had only given him a paper ! But
they never did in those days. Nobody had papers.
The American law is different."

" It 's a law of thieves ! " cried Ramona.

RAMONA. 241

" Yes, and of murderers too," said Alessandro.
"Don't you call my father murdered just as much as
if they had shot him ? I do ! And, 0 Senorita, my
Senorita, there was Jose ! You recollect Jose", who
went for my violin ? But, my beloved one, I am
killing you with these terrible things ! I will speak
no more."

" No, no, Alessandro. Tell me all, all. You must
have no grief I do not share. Tell me about Jose,"
cried Eamona, breathlessly.

" Senorita, it will break your heart to hear. Josd
was married a year ago. He had the best house in
Temecula, next to my father's. It was the only other
one that had a shingled roof. And he had a barn
too, and that splendid horse he rode, and oxen, and
a flock of sheep. He was at home when the sheriff
came. A great many of the men were away, grape-
picking. That made it worse. But Jose was at
home ; for his wife had a little baby only a few
weeks old, and the child seemed sickly and not like
to live, and Jose" would not leave it. Jose was the
first one that saw the sheriff riding into the village,
and the band of armed men behind him, and Jose
knew what it meant. He had often talked it over
with me and with my father, and now he saw that it
had come ; and he went crazy in one minute, and fell
on the ground all froth at his mouth. He had had a
fit like that once before ; and the doctor said if he
had another, he would die. But he did not. They
picked him up, and presently he was better; and
Mr. Rothsaker said nobody worked so well in the
moving the first day as Jose did. Most of the
'men would not lift a hand. They sat on the ground
with the women, and covered up their faces, and
would not see. But Jose* worked ; and, Senorita, one
of the first things he did, was to run with my father's
violin to the store, to Mrs. Hartsel, and ask her to

16

242 RAMONA.

hide it for us ; Jos6 knew it was worth money. But
before 110011 the second day he had another fit, and
died in it, — died right in his own door, carrying out
some of the things ; and after Carmeua — that 's his
wife's name — saw he was dead, she never spoke, but
sat rocking back and forth on the ground, with the
baby in her arms. She went over to Pachanga at
the same time I did with my father. It was a long
procession of us."

" Where is Pachanga ? " asked Ramona.

" About three miles from Temecula, a little sort of
canon. I told the people they 'd better move over
there ; the land did not belong to anybody, and per
haps they could make a living there. There is n't any
water ; that 's the worst of it."

" No water ! " cried Eamona.

" No running water. There is one little spring,
and they dug a well by it as soon as they got there ;
so there was water to drink, but that is all. I saw
Carmena could hardly keep up, and I carried the
baby for her on one arm, while I led my father
with the other hand ; but the baby cried, so she
took it back. I thought then it would n't live the
day out ; but it did live till the morning of the day
my father died. Just a few hours before he died,
Carmena came along with the baby rolled up in her
shawl, and sat down by me on the ground, and did
not speak. When I said, ' How is the little one ? '
she opened her shawl and showed it to me, dead.
' Good, Carmena ! ' said I. ' It is good ! My father
is dying too. We will bury them together.' So she
sat by me all that morning, and at night she helped
me dig the graves. I wanted to put the baby on
my father's breast ; but she said, no, it must have a
little grave. So she dug it herself; and we put
them in ; and she never spoke, except that once. She
was sitting there by the grave when I came away.

RAMONA. 243

I made a cross of two little trees with the houghs
chopped oft', and set it up by the graves. So that is
the way our new graveyard was begun, — my father
and the little baby ; it is the very young and the
very old that have the blessed fortune to die. I
cannot die, it seems ! "

" Where did they bury Jose ? " gasped Eamona.

" In Temecula," said Alessandro. " Mr. Eothsaker
made two of his men dig a grave in our old graveyard
for Jose. But I think Carmena will go at night and
bring his body away. I would ! But, my Senorita,
it is very dark, I can hardly see your beloved eyes.
I think you must not stay longer. Can I go as far as
the brook with you, safely, without being seen ? The
saints bless you, beloved, for coming. I could not
have lived, I think, without one more sight of your
face;" and, springing to his feet, Alessandro stood
waiting for Eamona to move. She remained still.
She was in a sore strait. Her heart held but one
impulse, one desire, — to go with Alessandro ; noth
ing was apparently farther from his thoughts than
this. Could she offer to go ? Should she risk laying
a burden on him greater than he could bear ? If he
were indeed a beggar, as he said, would his life be
hindered or helped by her ? She felt herself strong
and able. Work had no terrors for her ; privations
she knew nothing of, but she felt no fear of them.

" Alessandro ! " she said, in a tone which startled
him.

" My Senorita ! " he said tenderly.

"You have never once called me Eamona."

" I cannot, Senorita ! " he replied.

" Why not ? "

" I do not know. I sometimes think ' Eamona,' " he
added faintly ; " but not often. If I think of y<?u by
any other name than as my Senorita, it is usually by
a name you never heard."

244 RAMON A.

" What is it? " exclaimed Ramona, wonderingly.

" An Indian word, my dearest one, the name of the
bird you are like, — the wood-dove. In the Luiseno
tongue that is Majel ; that was what I thought my
people would have called you, if you had come to-
dwell among us. It is a beautiful name, Senorita, and1
is like you."

Alessandro was still standing. Ramona rose ; com
ing close to him, she laid both her hands on his breast,
and her head on her hands, and said : " Alessandro,
I have something to tell you. I am an Indian. I
belong to your people."

Alessandro's silence astonished her. " You are sur
prised," she said. " I thought you would be glad."

" The gladness of it came to me long ago, my
Senorita," he said. " I knew it ! "

" How ? " cried Ramona. " And you never told me,
Alessandro ! "

" How could I ? " he replied. " I dared not. Juan
Canito, it was, told me."

"Juan Canito!" said Ramona, musingly. "How
could he have known ? " Then in a few rapid words
she told Alessandro all that the Senora had told her.
" Is that what Juan Can said ? " she asked.

"All except the father's name," stammered Ales
sandro.

" Who did he say was my father ? " she asked.

Alessandro was silent.

" It matters not," said Ramona. " He was wrong.
The Senora, of course, knew. He was a friend of hers,
and of the Senora Ortegna, to whom he gave me. But
I think, Alessandro, I have more of my mother than
of my father."

" Yes, you have, my Senorita," replied Alessandro,
tenderly. " After I knew it, I then saw what it was
in your face had always seemed to me like the faces
of my own people."

RAMONA. 245

" Are you not glad, Alessandro ? "

" Yes, my Senorita."

What more should Kamona say ? Suddenly her
heart gave way ; and without premeditation, without
resolve, almost without consciousness of what she
was doing, she flung herself on Alessandro's breast,
and cried : " Oh, Alessandro, take me with you j
take me with you ! I would rather die than have
you leave me again!"

XV.

ALESSANDEO'S first answer to this cry of Ea-
niona's was a tightening of his arms around
her ; closer and closer he held her, till it wras almost
pain ; she could hear the throbs of his heart, but he
did not speak. Then, letting his arms fall, taking her
hand in his, he laid it on his forehead reverently, and
said, in a voice which was so husky and trembling
she could barely understand his words : " My Seno-
rita knows that my life is hers. She can ask me to go
into the fire or into the sea, and neither the fire nor
the sea would frighten me ; they would but make me
glad for her sake. But I cannot take my Seiiorita's
life to throw it away. She is tender ; she would die ;
she cannot lie on the earth for a bed, and have no
food to eat. My Senorita does not know what she
says."

His solemn tone ; this third-person designation, as
if he were speaking of her, not with her, almost as
if he were thinking aloud to God rather than speak
ing to her, merely calmed and strengthened, did not
deter Eamona. " I am strong ; I can work too, Ales-
sandro. You do not know. We can both work. I
am not afraid to lie on the earth ; and God will give
us food," she said.

" That was what I thought, my Senorita, until now.
When I rode away that morning, I had it in my
thoughts, as you say, that if you were not afraid, I
would not be ; and that there would at least always
be food, and I could make it that you should never
suffer ; but, Senorita, the saints are displeased. They

RAM ON A. 247

do not pray for us any more. It is as my father said,
they have forsaken us. These Americans will destroy
us all. I do not know but they will presently begin
to shoot us and poison us, to get us all out of the
country, as they do the rabbits and the gophers ; it
would not be any worse than what they have done.
Would not you rather be dead, Senorita, than be as I
am to-day ? "

Each word he spoke but intensified Eamona's
determination to share his lot. " Alessandro," she
interrupted, " there are many men among your people
who have wives, are there not ? "

" Yes, Senorita ! " replied Alessandro, wonderingly.

" Have their wives left them and gone away, now
that this trouble has come ? "

" No, Senorita ! " still more wonderingly ; " how
could they?"

" They are going to stay with them, help them
to earn money, try to make them happier, are they
not ? "

" Yes, Senorita." Alessandro began to see whith
er these questions tended. It was not unlike the
Seiiora's tactics, the way in which Kamona narrowed
in her lines of interrogation.

"Do the women of your people love their hus
bands very much ? "

"Very much, Senorita." A pause. It was very
dark now. Alessandro could not see the hot currents
running swift and red over Ramona's face ; even her
neck changed color as she asked her last question.
" Do you think any one of them loves her husband
more than I love you, Alessandro ? "

Alessandro's arms were again around her, before
the words were done. Were not such words enough
to make a dead man live ? Almost ; but not enough
to make such a love as Alessandro's selfish. Ales
sandro was silent.

248 RAMONA.

" You know there is not one ! " said Eamona, im
petuously.

" Oh, it is too much ! " cried Alessandro, throwing
his arms up wildly. Then, drawing her to him again,
he said, the words pouring out breathless : " My Serio-
rita, you take me to the door of heaven, hut I daro
not go in. I know it would kill you, Senorita, to live
the life we must live. Let me go, dearest Senorita ;
let me go ! It had been better if you had never
seen me."

" Do you know what I was going to do, Alessan
dro, if you had not come ? " said Kamona. " I was
going to run away from the Senora's house, all alone,
and walk all the way to Santa Barbara, to Father
Salvierderra, and ask him to put me in the convent
at San Juan Bautista ; and that is what I will do now
if you leave me ! "

" Oh, no, no, Senorita, my Senorita, you will
not do that ! My beautiful Senorita in the convent !
No, no ! " cried Alessandro, greatly agitated.

" Yes, if you do not let me come with you, I shall
do it. I shall set out to-morrow."

Her words carried conviction to Alessandro's soul.
He knew she would do as he said. " Even that would
not be so dreadful as to be hunted like a wild beast,
Senorita ; as you may be, if you come with me."

" When I thought you were dead, Alessandro, I did
not think the convent would he dreadful at all. I
thought it would be peace ; and I could do good,
teaching the children. But if I knew you were alive,
I could never have peace ; not for one minute have
peace, Alessandro ! I would rather die, than not be
where you are. Oh, Alessandro, take me with you ! "

Alessandro was conquered. " I will take you,
my most beloved Senorita," he said gravely, — no
lover's gladness in his tone, and his voice was hol
low ; " I will take you. Perhaps the saints will have

RAMONA. 249

mercy on you, even if they have forsaken me and my
people ! "

" Your people are my people, dearest ; and the saints
never forsake any one who does not forsake them.
You will be glad all our lives long, Alessandro," cried
Kamona ; and she laid her head on his breast in
solemn silence for a moment, as if registering a vow.

Well might Felipe have said that he would hold
himself fortunate if any woman ever loved him as
Eamoria loved Alessandro.

When she lifted her. head, she said timidly, now
that she was sure, "Then you will take your Ea-
mona with you, Alessandro ? "

" I will take you with me till I die ; and may the
Madonna guard you, my Ramona," replied Alessan
dro, clasping her to his breast, and bowing his head
upon hers. But there were tears in his eyes, and
they were not tears of joy ; and in his heart he said,
as in his rapturous delight when he first saw Eamona
bending over the brook under the willows he had
said aloud, " My God ! what shall I do ! "

It was not easy to decide on the best plan of pro
cedure now. Alessandro wished to go boldly to the
house, see Senor Felipe, and if need be the Senora.
Eamona quivered with terror at the bare mention of
it. "You do not know the Senora, Alessandro," she
cried, " or you would never think of it. She has been
terrible all this time. She hates me so that she would
kill me if she dared. She pretends that she will do
nothing to prevent my going away ; but I believe at
the last minute she would throw me in the well in
the court-yard, rather than have me go with you."

" I would never let her harm you," said Alessandro.
" Neither would Senor Felipe."

" She turns Felipe round her finger as if he were
soft wax," answered Eamona. " She makes him of a
hundred minds in a minute, and he can't help him-

250 RAMON A.

self. Oh, I think she is in league with the fiends,
Alessandro ! Don't dare to come near the house ; I
will come here as soon as every one is asleep. We
must go at once."

Ramona's terrors overruled Alessandro's judgment,
and he consented to wait for her at the spot where
they now stood. She turned back twice to embrace
him again. " Oh, my Alessandro, promise me that you
will not stir from this place till I come," she said.

" I will be here when you come," he said.

" It will not be more than two hours," she said, " or
three, at the utmost. It must be nine o'clock now."

She did not observe that Alessandro had evaded
the promise not to leave the spot. That promise Ales
sandro would not have given. He had something to
do in preparation for this unexpected flight of Ilamona.
In her innocence, her absorption in her thoughts of
Alessandro and of love, she had never seemed to con
sider how she would make this long journey. As
Alessandro had ridden towards Temecula, eighteen
days ago, he had pictured himself riding back on his
fleet, strong Benito, and bringing Antonio's matchless
little dun mare for liamona to ride. Only eighteen
short days ago ; and as he was dreaming that very
dream, he had looked up and seen Antonio on the little
dun mare, galloping towards him like the wind, the
overridden creature's breath coming from her like pants
of a steam-engine, and her sides dripping blood, where
Antonio, who loved her, had not spared the cruel spurs ;
and Antonio, seeing him, had uttered a cry, and fling
ing himself off, came with a bound to his side, and with
gasps between his words told him. Alessandro could
not remember the words, only that after them he set
his teeth, and dropping the bridle, laid his head down
between Benito's ears, and whispered to him ; and
Benito never stopped, but galloped on all that day, till
he came into Temecula ; and there Alessandro saw the

RAMON A. 251

roofless houses, and the wagons being loaded, and the
people running about, the women and children wail
ing ; and then they showed him the place where his
father lay on the ground, under the tule, and jump-
ins off' Benito he let him go, and that was the last he

o «

ever saw of him. Only eighteen days ago ! And
now here he was, under the willows, — the same copse
where he first halted, at his first sight of Eamona ;
and it was night, dark night, and Kainona had been
there, in his arms ; she was his ; and she was coming
back presently to go away with him, — where ! He
had no home in the wide world to which to take her,
— and this poor beast he had ridden from Temecula,
had it strength enough left to carry her ? Alessandro
doubted. He had himself walked more than half the
distance, to spare the creature, and yet there had been
good pasture all the way ; but the animal had been
too long starved to recover quickly. In the Pachanga
canon, where they had found refuge, the grass was
burned up by the sun, and the few horses taken over
there had suffered wretchedly ; some had died. But
Alessandro, even while his arms were around Eamona,
had revolved in his mind a project he would not have
dared to confide to her. If Baba, Eamona's own horse,
was still in the corral, Alessandro could without diffi
culty lure him out. He thought it would be no sin.
At any rate, if it were, it could not be avoided. The
Senorita must have a horse, and Baba had always
been her own ; had followed her about like a dog ever
since he could run ; in fact, the only taming he had
ever had, had been done by Eamona, with bread and
honey. He was intractable to others; but Eamona
could guide him by a wisp of his silky mane. Ales
sandro also had nearly as complete control over him ;
for it had been one of his greatest pleasures, during
the summer, when he could not see Eamona, to caress
and fondle her horse, till Baba knew and loved him

252 RAMONA.

next to his young mistress. If only Baba were in
the corral, all would be well. As soon as the sound
of Kamona's footsteps had died away, Alessandro fol
lowed with quick but stealthy steps; keeping well
down in the bottom, below the willows, he skirted the
terrace where the artichoke-patch and the sheepfolds
lay, and then turned up to approach the corral from
the farther side. There was no light in any of the
herdsmen's huts. They were all asleep. That was
good. Well Alessandro knew how sound they slept ;
many a night while he slept there with them he had
walked twice over their bodies as they lay stretched on
skins on the floor, — out and in without rousing them.
If only Baba would not give a loud whinny. Leaning
on the corral-fence, Alessandro gave a low, hardly au
dible whistle. The horses were all in a group together
at the farther end of the corral. At the sound there
was a slight movement in the group ; and one of them
turned and came a pace or two toward Alessandro.

" I believe that is Baba himself," thought Alessan
dro; and he made another low sound. The horse
quickened his steps ; then halted, as if he suspected
some mischief.

" Baba," whispered Alessandro. The horse knew his
name as well as any dog ; knew Alessandro's voice too ;
but the sagacious creature seemed instinctively to know
that here was an occasion for secrecy and caution.
If Alessandro whispered, he, Baba, would whisper
back ; and it was little more than a whispered whinny
which he gave, as he trotted quickly to the fence,
and put his nose to Alessandro's face, rubbing and
kissing and giving soft whinnying sighs.

" Hush ! hush ! Baba," whispered Alessandro, as if
he were speaking to a human being. " Hush ! " and
he proceeded cautiously to lift off the upper rails and
bushes of the fence. The horse understood instantly ;
and as soon as the fence was a little lowered, leaped

RAMONA. 253

over it anil stood still by Alessandro's side, while he
replaced the rails, smiling to himself, spite of his
grave anxiety, to think of Juan Can's wonder in the
morning as to how Baba had managed to get out of
the corral.

This had taken only a few moments. It was bet
ter luck than Alessandro had hoped for ; emboldened
by it, he began to wonder if he could not get the sad
dle too. The saddles, harnesses, bridles, and all such
things hung on pegs in an open barn, such as is con
stantly to be seen in Southern California ; as signifi
cant a testimony, in matter of climate, as any Signal
Service Report could be, — a floor and a roof ; no walls,
only corner posts to hold the roof. Nothing but sum
mer-houses on a large scale are the South California
barns. Alessandro stood musing. The longer he
thought, the greater grew his desire for that saddle.

" Baba, if only you knew what I wanted of you,
you 'd lie down on the ground here and wait while I
got the saddle. But I dare not risk leaving you.
Come, Baba ! " and he struck down the hill again, the
horse following him softly. When he got down be
low the terrace, he broke into a run, with his hand
in Baba's mane, as if it were a frolic ; and in a few
moments they were safe in the willow copse, where
Alessandro's poor pony was tethered. Fastening
Baba with the same lariat, Alessandro patted him on
the neck, pressed his face to his nose, and said aloud,
:' Good Baba, stay here till the Senorita comes."
Baba whinnied.

" Why should n't he know the Senorita's name ! I
( believe he does ! " thought Alessandro, as he turned
and again ran swiftly back to the corral. He felt
strong now, — felt like a new man. Spite of all the
terror, joy thrilled him. When he reached the corral,
all was yet still. The horses had not moved from their
former position. Throwing himself flat on the ground,

254 RAMON A.

Alessandro crept on his breast from the corral to the
barn, several rods' distance. This was the most haz
ardous part of his adventure; every other moment
he paused, lay motionless for some seconds, then crept
a few paces more. As he neared the corner where
llamona's saddle always hung, his heart beat. Some
times, of a warm night, Luigo slept on the barn
floor. If he were there to-night, all was lost. Grop
ing in the darkness, Alessandro pulled himself up on
the post, felt for the saddle, found it, lifted it, and
in a trice was flat on the ground again, drawing the
saddle along after him. Not a sound had he made,
that the most watchful of sheep-dogs could hear.

" Ha, old Capitan, caught you napping this time ! "
said Alessandro to himself, as at last he got safe to
the bottom of the terrace, and, springing to his feet,
bounded away with the saddle on his shoulders. It
was a weight for a starving man to carry, but he
felt it not, for the rejoicing he had in its possession.
Now his Senorita would go in comfort. To ride Baba
was to be rocked in a cradle. If need be, Baba would
carry them both, and never know it ; and it might
come to that, Alessandro thought, as he knelt by the
side of his poor beast, which was stretched out on the
ground exhausted ; Baba standing by, looking down
in scornful wonder at this strange new associate.

" The saints be praised ! " thought Alessandro, as he
seated himself to wait. " This looks as if they would
not desert my Senorita."

Thoughts whirled in his brain. Where should they
go first ? What would be best ? Would they be
pursued ? Where could they hide ? Where should he
seek a new home ?

It was bootless thinking, until Eamona was by his
side. He must lay each plan before her. She must
decide. The first thing was to get to San Diego, to
the priest, to be married. That would be three days'

EAMONA. 255

hard ride ; five for the exhausted Indian pony. What
should they eat on the way ? Ah ! Alessandro be
thought him of the violin at Hartsel's. Mr. Hartsel
would give him money on that; perhaps buy it.
Then Alessandro remembered his own violin. He,
had not once thought of it before. It lay in its case
on a table in Sefior Felipe's room when he came away.
Was it possible ? No, of course it could not be
possible that the Senorita would think to bring it.
What would she bring ? She would be wise, Ales
sandro was sure.

How long the hours seemed as he sat thus plotting
and conjecturing ; more and more thankful, as each
hour went by, to see the sky still clouded, the dark
ness dense. "It must have been the saints, too,
that brought me on a night when there was no
moon," he thought ; and then he said again, devout
and simple-minded man that he was, " They mean
to protect my Senorita ; they will let me take care
of her."

Eamona was threading a perilous way, through
great difficulties. She had reached her room unob
served, so far as she could judge. Luckily for her,
Margarita was in bed with a terrible toothache, for
which her mother had given her a strong sleeping-
draught. Margarita was disposed of. If she had not
been, Eamona would never have got away, for Mar
garita would have known that she had been out of
the house for two hours, and would have watched to
see what it meant.

Eamona came in through the court-yard ; she
dared not go by the veranda, sure that Felipe and his
mother were sitting there still, for it was not late.

As she entered her room, she heard them talking.
She closed one of her windows, to let them know she
was there. Then she knelt at the Madonna's feet,
and in an inaudible whisper told her all she was

256 RAMONA.

going to do, and prayed that she would watch over her
and Alessandro, and show them where to go.

" I know she will ! I am sure she will ! " whispered
Eamona to herself as she rose from her knees.

Then she threw herself on her bed, to wait till the
Senora and Felipe should be asleep. Her brain was
alert, clear. She knew exactly what she wished to
do. She had thought that all out, more than two
weeks ago, when she was looking for Alessandro hour
by hour.

Early in the summer Alessandro had given to her,
as curiosities, two of the large nets which the Indian
women use for carrying all sorts of burdens. They
are woven out of the fibres of a flax-like plant, and
are strong as iron. The meshes being large, they are
very light ; are gathered at each end, and fastened to
a band which goes around the forehead. In these
can be carried on the back, with comparative ease,
heavier loads than could be lifted in any other way.
Until Eamona recollected these, she had been per
plexed to know how she should carry the things
which she had made up her mind it would be right
for her to take, — only a few ; simply necessaries ; one
stuff gown and her shawls ; the new altar-cloth, and
two changes of clothes ; that would not be a great
deal ; she had a right to so much, she thought, now
that she had seen the jewels in the Senora's keeping.
" I will tell Father Salvierderra exactly what I took,"
she thought, " and ask him if it was too much." She
did not like to think that all these clothes she must take
had been paid for with the Senora Moreno's money.

And Alessandro's violin. Whatever else she left,
that must go. What would life be to Alessandro
without a violin ! And if they went to Los Angeles,
he might earn money by playing at dances. Already
Eamona had devised several ways by which they
could both earn money.

RAMON A. 257

There must be also food for the journey. And it
must be good food, too ; wine for Alessandro. An
guish filled her heart as she recalled how gaunt he
looked. " Starving," he said they had been. Good
God ! Starving ! And she had sat down each day at
loaded tables, and seen, each day, good food thrown to
the dogs to eat.

It was long before the Senora went to her room ;
and long after that before Felipe's breathing had be
come so deep and regular that Ramona dared feel sure
that he was asleep. At last she ventured out. All
was dark ; it was past midnight.

" The violin first ! " she said ; and creeping into the
dining-room, and through the inner door to Felipe's
room, she brought it out, rolled it in shawl after
shawl, and put it in the net with her clothes. Then
she stole out, with this net on her back, " like a true
Indian woman as I am," she said, almost gayly, to
herself, — through the court-yard, around the south
east corner of the house, past the garden, down to the
willows, where she laid down her load, and went back
for the second.

This was harder. Wine she was resolved to have,
and bread and cold meat. She did not know so well
where to put her hand on old Marda's possessions as
on her own, and she dared not strike a light. She
made several journeys to the kitchen and pantry be
fore she had completed her store. Wine, luckily, she
found in the dining-room, — two full bottles; also
milk, which she poured into a leathern flask which
hung on the wall in the veranda.

Now all was ready. She leaned from her window,
and listened to Felipe's breathing. " How can I go
without bidding him good-by ? " she said. " How
can I ? " and she stood irresolute.

" Dear Felipe ! Dear Felipe ! He has always been
so good to me ! He has done all he could for me 3

Yi

258 RAMONA.

I wish I dared kiss him. I will leave a note for
him."

Taking a pencil and paper, and a tiny wax taper,
whose light would hardly be seen across a room,
she slipped once more into the dining-room, knelt on
the floor behind the door, lighted her taper, and
wrote : —

" DEAR FELIPE, — Alessandro has come, and I am gcx
ing away with him to-night. Don't let anything be done
to us, if you can help it. I don't know where we are
going. I hope, to Father Salvierderra. I shall love you
always. Thank you, dear Felipe, for all your kindness.

" RAMONA."

It had not taken a moment. She blew out her
taper, and crept back into her room. Felipe's bed
was now moved close to the wall of the house.
From her window she could reach its foot. Slowly,
cautiously, she stretched out her arm and dropped
the little paper on the coverlet, just over Felipe's
feet. There was a risk that the Sefiora would come
out in the morning, before Felipe awaked, and see the
note first ; but that risk she would take.

" Farewell, dear Felipe ! " she whispered, under her
breath, as she turned from the window.

The delay had cost her dear. The watchful Capi-
tan, from his bed at the upper end of the court, had
half heard, half scented something strange going on.
As Ramona stepped out, he gave one short, quick
bark, and came bounding down.

" Holy Virgin, I am lost ! " thought Eamona ; but,
crouching on the ground, she quickly opened her net,
and as Capitan came towards her, gave him a piece of
meat, fondling and caressing him. While he ate it,
wagging his tail, and making great demonstrations of
joy, she picked up her load again, and still fondling
him, said, " Come on, Capitan ! " It was her last

RAMONA. 259

chance. If he barked again, somebody would bo
waked ; if he went by her side quietly, she might
escape. A cold sweat of terror burst on her forehead
as she took her first step cautiously. The dog fol
lowed. She quickened her pace ; he trotted along,
still smelling the meat in the net. When she reached
the willows, she halted, debating whether she should
give him a large piece of meat, and try to run away
while he was eating it, or whether she should let him
go quietly along. "She decided on the latter course j
and, picking up her other net, walked on. She was
safe now. She turned, and looked back towards the
house ; all was dark and still. She could hardly see
its outline. A great wave of emotion swept over
her. It was the only home she had ever known.
All she had experienced of happiness, as well as of
bitter pain, had been there, — Felipe, Father Salvier-
derra, the servants, the birds, the garden, the dear
chapel ! Ah, if she could have once more prayed in
the chapel ! Who would put fresh flowers and ferns
in the chapel now ? How Felipe would miss her,
when he knelt before the altar ! For fourteen years
she had knelt by his side. And the Senora, — the
hard, cold Senora ! She would alone be glad. Every
body else would be sorry. " They will all be sorry I
have gone, — all but the Senora ! I wish it had been
so that I could have bidden them all good-by, and had
them all bid me good-by, and wish us good fortune ! "
thought the gentle, loving girl, as she drew a long
sigh, and, turning her back on her home, went for
ward in the path she had chosen.

She stooped and patted Capitan on the head. " Will
you come with me, Capitan ? " she said ; and Capitan
leaped up joyfully, giving two or three short, sharp
notes of delight. " Good Capitan, come ! They will
not miss him out of so many," she thought, " and it
will always seem like something from home, as long
as T hnve Capitan."

200 RAMONA.

When Alessandro first saw Eamona's figure dimly
in the gloom,' drawing slowly nearer, he did not recog
nize it, and he was full of apprehension at the sight.
What stranger could it be, abroad in these lonely
meadows at this hour of the night ? Hastily he led
the horses farther back into the copse, and hid him
self behind a tree, to watch. In a few moments more
lie thought he recognized Capitan, bounding by the
side of this bent and slow-moving figure. Yet this
was surely an Indian woman toiling along under a
heavy load. But what Indian woman would have so
superb a colley as Capitan ? Alessandro strained his
eyes through the darkness. Presently he saw the
figure halt, — drop part of its burden.

" Alessandro ! " came in a sweet, low call.

He bounded like a deer, crying, " My Seiiorita !
my Senorita ! Can that be you ? To think that you
have brought these heavy loads ! "

Ramona laughed. " Do you remember the day you
showed me how the Indian women carried so much
on their backs, in these nets ? I did not think
then I woiild use it so soon. But it hurts my
forehead, Alessandro. It is n't the weight, but the
strings cut. I could n't have carried them much
farther ! "

"Ah, you had no basket to cover the head," re
plied Alessandro, as he threw up the two nets on his
shoulders as if they had been feathers. In doing so,
he felt the violin-case.

" Is it the violin ? " he cried. " My blessed one,
where did you get it ? "

" Off the table in Felipe's room," she answered.
" I knew you would rather have it than anything
else. I brought very little, Alessandro ; it seemed
nothing while I was getting it ; but it is very heavy
to carry. Will it be too much for the poor tired
horse ? You and I can walk. And see, Alessandro,

RAMONA. 201

here is Capitan. He waked up, and I had to bring
him, to keep him still. Can't he go with us ? "

Capitan was leaping up, putting his paws on Ales-
sandro's breast, licking his face, yelping, doing all a
dog could do, to show welcome and affection.

Alessandro laughed aloud. Eamona had not more
than two or three times heard him do this. It fright
ened her. "Why do you laugh, Alessandro?" she
said.

" To think what I have to show you, my Senorita,"
he said. " Look here ; " and turning towards the wil
lows, he gave two or three low whistles, at the first
note of which Baba came trotting out of the copse to
the end of his lariat, and began to snort and whinny
with delight as soon as he perceived Eamona.

Eamona burst into tears. The surprise was too
great.

" Are you not glad, Senorita ? " cried Alessandro,
aghast. " Is it not your own horse ? If you do not
wish to take him, I will lead him back. My pony
can carry you, if we journey very slowly. But I
thought it would be joy to you to have Baba."

" Oh, it is ! it is ! " sobbed Eamona, with her head
on Baba's neck. " It is a miracle, — a miracle. How
did he come here ? And the saddle too ! " she cried,
for the first time observing that. " Alessandro," in an
awe-struck whisper, " did the saints send him ? Did
you find him here ? " It would have seemed to
Eamoua's faith no strange thing, had this been so.

" I think the saints helped me to bring him,"
answered Alessandro, seriously, "or else I had not done
it so easily. I did but call, near the corral-fence, and
he came to my hand, and leaped over the rails at my
word, as quickly as Capitan might have done. He is
yours, Senorita. It is no harm to take him ? "

" Oh, no ! " answered Eamona. " He is more mine
than anything else I had ; for it was Felipe gave him

2G2 RAMONA.

to me when he could but just stand on his legs ; he
was only two days old ; and I have fed him out of
my hand every day till now ; and now he is five.
Dear Baba, we will never be parted, never ! " and
she took his paw in both her hands, and laid her
cheek against it lovingly.

Alessandro was busy, fastening the two nets on
either side the saddle. " Baba will never know
he has a load at all ; they are not so heavy as my
Senorita thought," he said. " It was the weight on the
forehead, with nothing to keep the strings from the
skin, which gave her pain."

Alessandro was making all haste. His hands trem
bled. " We must make all the speed we can, dearest
Seiiorita," he said, " for a few hours. Then we will
rest. Before light, we will be in a spot where we can
hide safely all day. We will journey only by night,
lest they pursue us."

" They will not," said Kamona. " There is no
danger. The Senora said she should do nothing.
' Nothing ! ' " she repeated, in a bitter tone. " That
is what she made Felipe say, too. Felipe wanted to
help us. He would have liked to have you stay
with us ; but all lie could get was, that she would do
' nothing ! ' But they will not follow us. They will
wish never to hear of me again. I mean, the Senora
will wish never to hear of me. Felipe will be sorry.
Felipe is very good, Alessandro."

They were all ready now, — Eamona on Baba,
the two packed nets swinging from her saddle,
one on either side. Alessandro, walking, led his
tired pony. It was a sad sort of procession for
one going to be wed, but Eamona's heart was full
of joy.

" I don't know why it is, Alessandro," she said ;
" I should think I would be afraid, but I have not
the least fear, — not the least ; not of anything that

RAMONA. 263

can come, Alessandro," she reiterated with emphasis.
" Is it not strange ? "

" Yes, Senorita," he replied solemnly, laying his
hand on hers as he walked close at her side. " It is
strange. I am afraid, — afraid for you, my Senorita !
But it is done, and we will not go back ; and perhaps
the saints will help you, and will let me take care
of you. They must love you, Senorita ; but they do
not love me, nor my people."

" Are you never going to call me by my name ? "
asked Eamona. " I hate your calling me Senorita.
That was what the Senora always called me when
she was displeased."

" I will never speak the word again ! " cried Ales
sandro. " The saints forbid I should speak to you
in the words of that woman ! "

" Can't you say Eamona ? " she asked.

Alessandro hesitated. He could not have told why
it seemed to him difficult to say Eamona.

" What was that other name, you said you always
thought of me by ? " she continued. " The Indian
name, — the name of the dove ? "

" Majel," he said. " It is by that name I have often-
est thought of you since the night I watched all night
for you, after you had kissed me, and two wood-doves
were calling and answering each other in the dark ;
and I said to myself, that is what my love is like,
the wood-dove : the wood-dove's voice is low like
hers, and sweeter than any other sound in the earth ;
and the wood-dove is true to one mate always —
He stopped.

" As I to you, Alessandro," said Eamona, leaning
from her horse, and resting her hand on Alessandro's
shoulder.

Baba stopped. He was used to knowing by the
most trivial signs what his mistress wanted ; he did
not understand this new situation ; no one had ever

2G4 RAMON A.

before, when Ramona was riding him, walked by
his side so close that he touched his shoulders, and
rested his hand in his mane. If it had been anybody
else than Alessandro, Baba would not have permitted
it even now. But it must be all right, since Ramona
was quiet ; and now she had stretched out her hand
and rested it on Alessaridro's shoulder. Did that mean
halt for a moment ? Baba thought it might, and
acted accordingly ; turning his head round to the
right, and looking back to see what came of it.

Alessandro's arms around Ramona, her head bent
down to his, their lips together, — what could Baba
think ? As mischievously as if he had been a human
being or an elf, Baba bounded to one side and tore
the lovers apart. They both laughed, and cantered
on, — Alessandro running ; the poor Indian pony
feeling the contagion, and loping as it had not done
for many a day.

"Majel is my name, then," said Ramona, " is it?
It is a sweet sound, but I would like it better
Majella. Call me Majella."

" That will be good," replied Alessandro, " for the
reason that never before had any one. the same name.
It will not be hard for me to say Majella. I know
not why your name of Ramona has always been hard
to my tongue."

" Because it was to be that you should call me
Majella," said Ramona. " Remember, I am Ramona
no longer. That also was the name the Sefiora called
me by — and dear Felipe too," she added thought
fully. " He would not know me by my new name.
I would like to have him always call me Ramoua.
But for all the rest of the world I am Majella, now, —
Alessandro's Majel ! "

XVI.

AFTER they reached the highway, and had trot
ted briskly on for a mile, Alessandro suddenly
put out his hand, and taking Baba by the rein, began
turning him round and round in the road.

" We will not go any farther in the road," he said,
" but I must conceal our tracks here. We will go
backwards for a few paces." The obedient Baba
backed slowly, half dancing, as if he understood the
trick ; the Indian pony, too, curvetted awkwardly,
then by a sudden bound under Alessandro's skilful
guidance, leaped over a rock to the right, and stood
waiting further orders. Baba followed, and Capitan ;
and there was no trail to show where they had left
the road.

After trotting the pony round and round again
in ever-widening circles, cantering off in one direc
tion after another, then backing over the tracks for
a few moments, Eamona docilely following, though
much bewildered as to what it all meant, Alessandro
said : " I think now they will never discover where
we left the road. They will ride along, seeing our
tracks plain, and then they will be so sure that we
would have kept straight on, that they will not no
tice for a time; and when they do, they will never be
able to see where the trail ended. And now my
Majella has a very hard ride before her. Will she
be afraid ? "

" Afraid ! " laughed Ramona. " Afraid, — on Baba,
and with you ! "

But it was indeed a hard ride. Alessandro had

266 RAMON A.

decided to hide for the day in a canon he knew, from
which a narrow trail led direct to Temecula, — a trail
which was known to none but Indians. Once in this
canon, they would be safe from all possible pursuit.
Alessandro did not in the least share Ramona's confi
dence that no effort would be made to overtake them.
To his mind, it appeared certain that the Senora
would never accept the situation without making
an attempt to recover at least the horse and the
dog. " She can say, if she chooses, that I have stolen
one of her horses," he thought to himself bitterly ;
" and everybody would believe her. Nobody would
believe us, if we said it was the Senorita's own
horse."

The head of the canon was only a couple of miles
from the road ; but it was in a nearly impenetrable
thicket of chaparral, where young oaks had grown up
BO high that their tops made, as it were, a second
stratum of thicket. Alessandro had never ridden
through it ; he had come up on foot once from the
other side, and, forcing his way through the tangle,
had found, to his surprise, that he was near the high
way. It was from this canon that he had brought
the ferns which it had so delighted Eamona to arrange
for the decoration of the chapel. The place was filled
with them, growing almost in tropical luxuriance ;
but this was a mile or so farther down, and to reach
that spot from above, Alessandro had had to let him
self down a sheer wall of stone. The canon at its
head was little more than a rift in the rocks, and the
stream which had its rise in it was only a trickling
spring at the beginning. It was this precious water,
as well as the inaccessibility of the spot, which had
decided Alessandro to gain the place at all hazards
and costs. But a wall of granite would not have
seemed a much more insuperable obstacle than did
this wall of chaparral, along which they rode, vainly

RAMONA. 267

searching for a break in it. It appeared to Alessandro
to have thickened and knit even since the last
spring. At last they made their way down a small
side canon, — a sort of wing to the main cafion ;
a very few rods down this, and they were as hidden
from view from above as if the earth had swallowed
them. The first red tints of the dawn were coming.
From the eastern horizon to the zenith, the whole sky
was like a dappled crimson fleece.

" Oh, what a lovely place ! " exclaimed Eamona.
" I am sure this was not a hard ride at all, Alessan
dro ! Is this where we are to stay ? "

Alessandro turned a compassionate look upon her.
" How little does the wood-dove know of rough
places ! " he said. " This is only the beginning ; hard
ly is it even the beginning."

Fastening his pony to a bush, he reconnoitred the
place, disappearing from sight the moment he entered
the chaparral in any direction. Eeturning at last,
with a grave face, he said, " Will Majella let me
leave her here for a little time ? There is a way, but
I can find it only on foot. I will not be gone long.
I know it is near."

Tears came into Eamona's eyes. The only thing
she dreaded was the losing sight of Alessandro. He
gazed at her anxiously. "I must go, Majella," he
said with emphasis. " We are in danger here."

" Go ! go ! Alessandro," she cried. " But, oh, do not
be long ! "

As he disappeared in the thicket, the tough boughs
crackling and snapping before him, it seemed to Ea
mona that she was again alone in the world. Capi-
tan, too, bounded after Alessandro, and did not return
at her call. All was still. Eamona laid her head on
Baba's neck. The moments seemed hours. At last,
just as the yellow light streamed across the sky, and
the crimson fleeces turned in one second to gold, she

268 RAMONA.

heard Alessandro's steps, the next moment saw his
face. It was aglow with joy.

" I have found the trail ! " he exclaimed ; " but we
must climb up again out of this ; and it is too light.
I like it not."

With fear and trembling they urged their horses
up and out into the open again, and galloped a half-
mile farther west, still keeping as close to the chap
arral thicket as possible. Here Alessandro, who
led the way, suddenly turned into the very thicket
itself; no apparent opening; but the boughs parted
and closed, and his head appeared above them ; still
the little pony was trotting bravely along. Baba
snorted with displeasure as he plunged into the same
bristling pathway. The thick-set, thorny branches
smote Ramona's cheeks. What was worse, they
caught the nets swung on Baba's sides ; presently
these were held fast, and Baba began to rear and
kick. Here was a real difficulty. Alessandro dis
mounted, cut the strings, and put both the packages
securely on the back of his own pony. " I will walk,"
he said. " It was only a little way longer I would have
ridden. I shall lead Baba, where it is narrow."

" Narrow," indeed. It was from sheer terror, soon,
that Ramona shut her eyes. A path, it seemed to
her only a hand's-breadth wide, — a stony, crumbling
path, — on the side of a precipice, down which the
stones rolled, and rolled, and rolled, echoing, far out
of sight, as they passed ; at each step the beasts took,
the stones rolled and fell. Only the yucca-plants,
with their sharp bayonet-leaves, had made shift to
keep foothold on this precipice. Of tbese there
were thousands ; and their tall flower-stalks, fifteen,
twenty feet high, set thick with the shining, smooth
seed-cups, glistened like satin chalices in the sun.
Below — hundreds of feet below — lay the canon bot
tom, a solid bed of chaparral, looking soft and even

RAMON A. 269

as a bed of moss. Giant sycamore-trees lifted their
heads, at intervals, above this ; and far out in the
plain glistened the loops of the river, whose sources,
unknown to the world, seen of but few human eyes,
were to be waters of comfort to these fugitives this
day.

Alessandro was cheered. The trail was child's play
to him. At the first tread of Baba's dainty steps on
the rolling stones, he saw that the horse was as sure
footed as an Indian pony. In a few short hours, now,
they would be all at rest. He knew where, under
a sycamore-clump, there was running water, clear as
crystal, and cold, — almost colder than one could
drink, — and green grass too ; plenty for two days'
feed for the horses, or even three ; and all California
might be searched over in vain for them, once they
were down this trail. His heart full of joy at these
thoughts, he turned, to see Eamona pallid, her lips
parted, her eyes full of terror. He had forgotten that
her riding had hitherto been only on the smooth ways
of the valley and the plain. There she was so fearless,
that he had had no misgiving about her nerves here ;
but she had dropped the reins, was clutching Baba's
mane with both hands, and sitting unsteadily in her
saddle. She had been too proud to cry out ; but she
was nearly beside herself with fright. Alessandro
halted so suddenly that Baba, whose nose was nearly
on his shoulder, came to so sharp a stop that Ka-
mona uttered a cry. She thought he had lost his
footing.

Alessandro looked at her in dismay. To dismount

I on that perilous trail was impossible ; moreover, to

walk there would take more nerve than to ride. Yet

she looked as if she could not much longer keep her

seat.

" Carita," he cried, " I was stupid not to have told
you how narrow the way is ; but it is safe. I can

270 RAMONA.

run in it. I ran all this way with the ferns on my
back I brought for you."

" Oh, did you ? " gasped Ramona, diverted, for the
moment, from her contemplation of the abyss, and
more reassured by that change of her thoughts than
she could have been by anything else. " Did you ?
It is frightful, Alessandro. I never heard of such a
trail. I feel as if I were on a rope in the air. If
I could get down and go on my hands and knees, I
think I would like it better. Could I ? "

" I would not dare to have you get off, just here,
Majella," answered Alessandro, sorrowfully. " It is
dreadful to me to see you suffer so ; I will go very
slowly. Indeed, it is safe ; we all came up here, the
whole band, for the sheep-shearing, — old Fernando
on his horse all the way."

"Really," said Ramona, taking comfort at each
word, " I will try not to be so silly. Is it far, dearest
Alessandro ? "

" Not much more as steep as this, dear, nor so
narrow ; but it will be an hour yet before we stop."

But the worst was over for Ramona now, and long
before they reached the bottom of the precipice she
was ready to laugh at her fears ; only, as she looked
back at the zigzag lines of the path over which she
had come, — little more than a brown thread, they
seemed, flung along the rock, — she shuddered.

Down in the bottom of the canon it was still the
dusky gloaming when they arrived. Day came late to
this fairy spot. Only at high noon did the sun fairly
shine in. As Ramona looked around her, she uttered
an exclamation of delight, which satisfied Alessandro.
" Yes," he said, " when I came here for the ferns, I
wished to myself many times that you could see
it. There is not in all this country so beautiful a
place. This is our first home, my Majella," he added,
in a tone almost solemn ; and throwing his arms

RAMON A. 271

around her, lie drew her to his breast, with the first
feeling of joy he had experienced.

" I wish we could live here always," cried Eamona.

" Would Majella be content ? " said Alessandro.

" Very," she answered.

He sighed. " There would not be land enough, to
live here," he said. " If there were, I too would like
to stay here till I died, Majella, and never see the
face of a white man again ! " Already the instinct of
the hunted and wounded animal to seek hiding, was
striving in Alessandro 's blood. " But there would be
no food. We could not live here." Eamona's ex
clamation had set Alessandro to thinking, however.
" Would Majella be content to stay here three days
now ? " he asked. " There is grass enough for the
horses for that time. We should be very safe here ;
and I fear very much we should not be safe on any
road. I think, Majella, the Senora will send men
after Baba."

" Baba ! " cried Eamona, aghast at the idea. " My
own horse ! She would not dare to call it stealing
a horse, to take my own Baba ! " But even as she
spoke, her heart misgave her. The Seflora would dare
anything ; would misrepresent anything ; only too well
Eamona knew what the very mention of the phrase
" horse-stealing" meant all through the country. She
looked piteously at Alessandro. He read her thoughts.

" Yes, that is it, Majella," he said. " If she sent
men after Baba, there is no knowing what they might
do. It would not do any good for you to say he was
yours. They would not believe you ; and they might
take me too, if the Senora had told them to, and put
me into Ventura jail."

" She 's just wicked enough to do it! " cried Eamona.
" Let us not stir out of this spot, Alessaudro, — not for
a week ! Could n't we stay a week ? By that time she
would have given over looking for us."

272 RAMON A.

" I am afraid not a week. There is not feed for
the horses ; and I do not know what we could eat. I
have my gun, but there is not much, now, to kill."

" But I have brought meat and bread, Alessandro,"
said Eamona, earnestly, " and we could eat very little
each day, and make it last ! " She was like a child,
in her simplicity and eagerness. Every other thought
was for the time being driven out of her mind by the
terror of being pursued. Pursuit of her, she knew,
would not be in the Senora's plan ; but the reclaim
ing of Baba and Capitan, that was another thing.
The more Eamona thought of it, the more it seemed
to her a form of vengeance which would be Likely to
commend itself to the Senora's mind. Felipe might
possibly prevent it. It was he who had given Baba
to her. He would feel that it would be shameful to
recall or deny the gift. Only in Felipe lay Eamona's
hope.

If she had thought to tell Alessandro that in her
farewell note to Felipe she had said that she sup
posed they were going to Father Salvierderra, it
would have saved both her and Alessandro much
disquietude. Alessandro would have known that
men pursuing them, on that supposition, would have
gone straight down the river road to the sea, and
struck northward along the coast. But it did not
occur to Earnona to mention this ; in fact, she hardly
recollected it after the first day. Alessandro had ex
plained to her his plan, which was to go by way of
Temecula to San Diego, to be married there by Father
Gaspara, the priest of that parish, and then go to the
village or pueblo of San Pasquale, about fifteen miles
northwest of San Diego. A cousin of Alessandro's
was the head man of this village, and had many
times begged him to corne there to live ; but Ales
sandro had steadily refused, believing it to be his
duty to remain at Temecula with his father. San

RAMONA. 273

Pasquale was a regularly established pueblo, founded
by a number of the Indian neophytes of the San
Luis Key Mission at the time of the breaking up
of that Mission. It was established by a decree of
the Governor of California, and the lands of the San
Pasquale Valley given to it. A paper recording this
establishment and gift, signed by the Governor's own
hand, was given to the Indian who was the first
Alcalde of the pueblo. He was Chief Pablo's brother.
At his death the authority passed into the hands of
his son, Ysidro, the cousin of whom Alessandro had
spoken.

" Ysidro has that paper still," Alessandro said,
" and he thinks it will keep them their village. Per
haps it will ; but the Americans are beginning to
come in at the head of the valley, and I do not be
lieve, Majella, there is any safety anywhere. Still,
for a few years we can perhaps stay there. There
are nearly two hundred Indians in the valley ; it is
much better than Temecula, and Ysidro's people
are much better off than ours were. They have
splendid herds of cattle and horses, and large wheat-
fields. Ysidro's house stands under a great fig-tree ;
they say it is the largest fig-tree in the country."

" But, Alessandro," cried Eamona, " why do you
think it is not safe there, if Ysidro has the paper ?
1 thought a paper made it all right."

" I don't know," replied Alessandro. " Perhaps it
may be ; but I have got the feeling now that nothing
will be of any use against the Americans. I don't
believe they will mind the paper."

" They did n't mind the papers the Senora had for
all that land of hers they took away," said Eamona,
thoughtfully. "But Felipe said that was because Pio
Pico was a bad man, and gave away lands he had
no right to give away."

" That 's just it," said Alessandro. " Can't they say
18

274 RAMON A.

that same thing about any governor, especially if he
has given lands to us ? If the Senora could n't keep
hers, with Senor Felipe to help her, and he knows all
about the law, and can speak the American language,
what chance is there for us ? We can't take care of
ourselves any better than the wild beasts can, my
Majella. Oh, why, why did you come with me ? Why
did I let you ? " '

After such words as these, Alessandro would throw
himself on the ground, and for a few moments not
even Eamona's voice would make him look up. It
was strange that the gentle girl, unused to hardship,
or to the thought of danger, did not find herself terri
fied by these fierce glooms and apprehensions of her
lover. But she was appalled by nothing. Saved
from the only thing in life she had dreaded, sure that
Alessandro lived, and that he would not leave her,
she had no fears. This was partly from her inex
perience, from her utter inability to conceive of the
things Alessandro's imagination painted in colors
only too true; but it was also largely due to the ina
lienable loyalty and quenchless courage of her soul, —
qualities in her nature never yet tested ; qualities of
which she hardly knew so much as the name, but
which were to bear her steadfast and buoyant through
many sorrowful years.

Before nightfall of this their first day in the wilder
ness, Alessandro had prepared for Eamona a bed of
finely broken twigs of the manzanita and ceanothus,
both of which grew in abundance all through the canon.
Above these he spread layers of glossy ferns, five and
six feet long ; when it was done, it was a couch no
queen need have scorned. As Ilamoua seated herself
on it, she exclaimed : " Now I shall see how it feels
to lie and look up at the stars at night ! Do you
recollect, Alessandro, the night you put Felipe's bed
on the veruuda, when 37ou told me how beautiful it

RAMONA. 275

was to lie at night out of doors and look np at the
stars ? "

Indeed did Alessandro remember that night, — the
first moment he had ever dared to dream of the Seno-
rita Eamona as his own. " Yes, I remember it, my
Majella," he answered slowly; and in a moment more
added, " That was the day Juan Can had told me
that your mother was of my people ; and that was the
night I first dared in my thoughts to say that perhaps
you might some day love me."

" But where are you going to sleep, Alessandro ? "
said Eamona, seeing that he spread no more boughs.
" You have made yourself no bed."

Alessandro laughed. " I need no bed," he said.
" We think it is on our mother's lap we lie, when we
lie on the ground. It is not hard, Majella. It is soft,
and rests one better than beds. But to-night I shall
not sleep. I will sit by this tree and watch."

" Why, what are you afraid of ? " asked Eamona.

" It may grow so cold that I must make a fire for
Majella," he answered. " It sometimes gets very
cold before morning in these canons ; so I shall feel
safer to watch to-night."

This he said, not to alarm Eamona. His real rea
son for watching was, that he had seen on the edge of
the stream tracks which gave him uneasiness. They
were faint and evidently old; but they looked like
the tracks of a mountain lion. As soon as it was
dark enough to prevent the curl of smoke from being-
seen from below, he would light a fire, and keep it
blazing all night, and watch, gun in hand, lest the
beast return.

" But you will be dead, Alessandro, if you do not
sleep. You are not strong," said Eamona, anxiously.

" I am strong now, Majella," answered Alessandro.
And indeed he did already look like a renewed man,
spite of all his fatigue and anxiety. " I am no longer

276 RAMONA.

weak ; and to-morrow I will sleep, and you shall
watch."

" Will you lie on the fern-bed then ? " asked Ea~
mona, gleefully.

" I would like the ground better," said honest
Alessandro.

Eamona looked disappointed. " That is very
strange," she said. " It is not so soft, this bed of
boughs, that one need fear to be made tender by
lying on it," she continued, throwing herself down;
" but oh, how sweet, how sweet it smells ! "

" Yes, there is spice- wood in it," he answered. " I
put it in at the head, for Majella's pillow."

Eamona was very tired, and she was happy. All
night long she slept like a child. She did not hear
Alessaudro's steps. She did not hear the crackling
of the fire he lighted. She did not hear the barking
of Capitan, who more than once, spite of all Ales
sandro could do to quiet him, made the cafion echo
with sharp, quick notes of warning, as he heard
the stealthy steps of wild creatures in the chap
arral. Hour after hour she slept on. And hour
after hour Alessandro sat leaning against a huge
sycamore-trunk, and watched her. As the fitful fire
light played over her face, he thought he had never
seen it so beautiful. Its expression of calm repose
insensibly soothed and strengthened him. She looked
like a saint, he thought ; perhaps it was as a saint
of help and guidance, the Virgin was sending her to
him and his people. The darkness deepened, became
blackness ; only the red gleams from the fire broke
it, in swaying rifts, as the wind makes rifts in black
storm-clouds in the heavens. With the darkness, the
stillness also deepened. Nothing broke that, except
an occasional motion of Baba or the pony, or an alert
signal from Capitan ; then all seemed stiller than
ever. Alessandro felt as if God himself were in the

RAMONA. 277

canon. Countless times in his life before he had
lain in lonely places under the sky and watched the
night through, but he never felt like this. It was
ecstasy, and yet it was pain. What was to come on
the morrow, and the next morrow, and the next, and
the next, all through the coming years ? What was
to come to this beloved and loving woman who lay
there sleeping, so confident, so trustful, guarded only
by him, — by him, Alessandro, the exile, fugitive,
homeless man ?

Before the dawn, wood-doves began their calling.
The canon was full of them, no two notes quite alike,
it seemed to Alessandro's sharpened sense ; pair after
pair, he fancied that he recognized, speaking and re
plying, as did the pair whose voices had so comforted
him the night he watched under the geranium hedge
by the Moreno chapel, — " Love ? " " Here ! " " Love ? "
" Here ! " They comforted him still more now.
" They too have only each other," he thought, as he
bent his eyes lovingly on Ramona's face.

It was dawn, and past dawn, on the plains, before
it was yet morning twilight in the canon ; but the
birds in the upper boughs of the sycamores caught
the tokens of the coming day, and began to twitter
in the dusk. Their notes fell on Eamona's sleeping
ear, like the familiar sound of the linnets in the
veranda-thatch at home, and waked her instantly.
Sitting up bewildered, and looking about her, she
exclaimed, " Oh, is it morning already, and so dark ?
The birds can see more sky than we ! Sing, Alessan
dro " and she began the hymn : —

" ' Singers at dawn

From the heavens above
People all regions ;
Gladly we too sing,'"

Never went up truer invocation, from sweeter spot

278 RAM ON A.

" Sing not so loud, my Majel," whispered Alessan-
dro, as her voice went carolling like a lark's iu the
pure ether. "There might be hunters near who
would hear; " and he joined in with low and muffled
tones.

As she dropped her voice at this caution, it seemed
even sweeter than before : —

" ' Come, O sinners,

Come, and we will sing
Tender hymns
To our refuge.' "

" Ah, Majella, there is no sinner here, except me !"
said Alessandro. "My Majella is like one of the
Virgin's own saints." And indeed he might have
been forgiven the thought, as he gazed at Ramona,
sitting there in the shimmering light, her face thrown
out into relief by the gray wall of fern-draped rock
behind her ; her splendid hair, unbound, falling in
tangled masses to her waist ; her cheeks flushed, her
face radiant with devout and fervent supplication,
her eyes uplifted to the narrow belt of sky overhead,
where filmy vapors were turning to gold, touched by
a sun she could not see.

" Hush, my love," she breathed rather than said.
" That would be a sin, if you really thought it.

' 0 beautiful Queen,
Princess of Heaven,' "

she continued, repeating the first lines of the song;
and then, sinking on her knees, reached out one hand
for Alessandro's, and glided, almost without a break
in the melodious sound, into a low recitative of the
morning prayers. Her rosary was of fine-chased gold
beads, with an ivory crucifix ; a rare and precious
relic of the Missions' olden times. It had belonged
to Father Peyri himself, was given by him to Fa
ther Salvierderra, and by Father Salvierderra to the

RAMON A. 279

"blessed child," Eamona,~at her confirmation. A
warmer token of his love and trust he could not
have bestowed upon her, and to Eamona's religious
and affectionate heart it had always seemed a bond
and an assurance, not only of Father Salvierderra's
love, but of the lov.e and protection of the now sainted
Peyri.

As she pronounced the last words of her trusting
prayer, and slipped the last of the golden beads along
on its string, a thread of sunlight shot into the canon
through a deep narrow gap in its rocky eastern
crest, — shot in for a second, no more ; fell aslant the
rosary, lighted it ; by a flash as if of fire, across the
fine-cut facets of the beads, on Eamona's hands, and
on the white face of the ivory Christ. Only a flash,
and it was gone ! To both Eamona and Alessanclro it
came like an omen, — like a message straight from the
Virgin. Could she choose better messenger, — she,
the compassionate one, the loving woman in heaven ;
mother of the Christ to whom they prayed, through
her, — mother, for whose sake He would regard their
least cry, — could she choose better messenger, or
swifter, than the sunbeam, to say that she heard and
would help them in these sore straits ?

Perhaps there were not, in the whole great world,
at that moment to be found, two souls who were ex
periencing so vivid a happiness as thrilled the veins
of these two friendless ones, on their knees, alone in
the wilderness, gazing half awe-stricken at the shin
ing rosaiy.

XVII. .

TDEFOEE the end of their second day in the canon,
JD the place had become to Eamona so like a
friendly home, that she dreaded to leave its shelter.
Nothing is stronger proof of the original intent of
Nature to do more for man than civilization in its
arrogance will long permit her to do, than the quick
and sure way in which she reclaims his affection,
when by weariness, idle chance, or disaster, he is re
turned, for an interval, to her arms. How soon he
rejects the miserable subterfuges of what he had
called habits ; sheds the still more miserable pre
tences of superiority, makeshifts of adornment, and
chains of custom ! " Whom the gods love, die young,"
has been too long carelessly said. It is not true, in
the sense in which men use the words. Whom the
gods love, dwell with nature ; if they are ever lured
away, return to her before they are old. Then, how
ever long they live before they die, they die young.
Whom the gods love, live young — forever.

With the insight of a lover added to the instinct of
the Indian, Alessandro saw how, hour by hour, there
grew in Ramona's eyes the wonted look of one at
home ; how she watched the shadows, and knew what
they meant. I

" If we lived here, the walls would be sun-dials for
us, would they not ? " she said, in a tone of pleas
ure. " I see that yon tall yucca has gone in shadow
sooner than it did yesterday."

And, " What millions of things grow here, Ales
sandro ! I did not know there were so many. Have

RAMONA. 281

they all names ? The nuns taught us some names ;
but they were hard, and I forgot them. We might
name them for ourselves, if we lived here. They
would be our relations."

And, " For one year I should lie and look up at
the sky, my Alessandro, and do nothing else. It
hardly seems as if it would be a sin to do nothing
for a year, if one gazed steadily at the sky all the
while."

And, " Now I know what it is I have always seen
in your face, Alessandro. It is the look from the
sky. One must be always serious and not unhappy,
but never too glad, I think, when he lives with noth
ing between him and the sky, and the saints can see
him every minute."

And, " I cannot believe that it is but two days I
have lived in the air, Alessandro. This seems to me
the first home I have ever had. Is it because I am
Indian, Alessandro, that it gives me such joy ? "

It was strange how many more words Eamona
spoke than Alessandro, yet how full she felt their
intercourse to be. His silence was more than silent ;
it was taciturn. Yet she always felt herself answered.
A monosyllable of Alessandro's, nay, a look, told
what other men took long sentences to say, and said
less eloquently.

After long thinking over this, she exclaimed, " You
speak as the trees speak, and like the rock yonder,
and the flowers, without saying anything!"

This delighted Alessandro's very heart. " And
you, Majella," he exclaimed ; " when you say that,
you speak in ths language of our people ; you are as
we are."

And Eamona, in her turn, was made happy by
his words, — happier than she would have been made
by any other praise or fondness.

Alessandro found himself regaining all his strength

282 RAMONA.

as if by a miracle. The gaunt look had left his
face. Almost it seemed that its contour was already
fuller. There is a beautiful old Gaelic legend of a
Fairy who wooed a Prince, came again and again to
him, and, herself invisible to all but the Prince, hov
ered in the air, sang loving songs to draw him away
from the crowd of his indignant nobles, who heard
her voice and summoned magicians to rout her by all
spells and enchantments at their command. Finally
they succeeded in silencing her and driving her off;
but as she vanished from the Prince's sight she threw
him an apple, — a magic golden apple. Once having
tasted of this, he refused all other food. Day after
day, night after night, he ate only this golden apple ;
and yet, morning after morning, evening after evening,
there lay the golden fruit, still whole and shining, as
if he had not fed upon it ; and when the Fairy came
the next time, the Prince leaped into her magic boat,
sailed away with her, and never was seen in his king
dom again. It was only an allegory, this legend, —
a beautiful allegory, and true, — of love and lovers.
The food on which Alessandro was, hour by hour,
now growing strong, was as magic and invisible as
Prince Connla's apple, and just as strength-giving.

" My Alessandro, how is it you look so well, so
soon ? " said Ramona, studying his countenance with
loving care. " I thought that night you would die.
Now you look nearly strong as ever ; your eyes shine,
and your hand is not hot ! It is the blessed air ; it
has cured you, as it cured Felipe of the fever."

" If the air could keep me well, I had not been ill,
Majella," replied Alessandro. " I had been under no
roof except the tule-shed, till I saw you. It is not
the air ; " and he looked at her with a gaze that said
the rest.

At twilight of the third day, when Ramona saw
Alessandro leading up Baba, saddled ready for the

RAMONA. 283

journey, the tears filled her eyes. At noon Alessan-
dro had said to her : " To-night, Majella, we must go.
There is not grass enough for another day. We must
go while the horses are strong. I dare not lead them
any farther down the canon to graze, for there is a
ranch only a few miles lower. To-day I found one
of the man's cows feeding near Baba."

Ramona made no remonstrance. The necessity
was too evident ; but the look on her face gave Ales-
sandro a new pang. He, too, felt as if exiled afresh
in leaving the spot. And now, as he led the horses
slowly up, and saw Ramona sitting in a dejected atti
tude beside the nets, in which were again carefully
packed their small stores, his heart ached anew.
Again the sense of his homeless and destitute con
dition settled like an unbearable burden on his soul.
Whither and to what was he leading his Majella ?

But once in the saddle, Ramona recovered cheer
fulness. Baba was in such gay heart, she could not
be wholly sad. The horse seemed fairly rollicking
with satisfaction at being once more on the move.
Capitan, too, was gay. He had found the canon dull,
spite of its refreshing shade and cool water. He
longed for sheep. He did not understand this inac
tivity. The puzzled look on his face had made Ra
mona laugh more than once, as he would come and
stand before her, wagging his tail and fixing his eyes
intently on her face, as if he said in so many words,
" What in the world are you about in this canon, and
do not you ever intend to return home ? Or if you
will stay here, why riot keep sheep ? Do you not
see that I have nothing to do ? "

" We must ride all night, Majella," said Alessan-
dro, " and lose no time. It is a long way to the
place where we shall stay to-morrow."

" Is it a canon ? " asked Ramona, hopefully.

" No," he replied, " not a canon ; but there are

284 RAMONA.

beautiful oak-trees. It is where we get our acorns
for the winter. It is on the top of a high hill."

" Will it be safe there ? " she asked.

" I think so," he replied ; " though not so safe
as here. There is no such place as this in all the
country."

" And then where shall we go next ? " she asked.

" That is very near Ternecula," he said. " We must
go into Temecula, dear Majella. I must go to Mr.
Hartsel's. He is friendly. He will give me money
for my father's violin. If it were not for that, I
would never go near the place again."

" I would like to see it, Alessandro," she said
gently.

" Oh, no, no, Majella ! " he cried ; " you would not.
It is terrible ; the houses all unroofed, — all but
my father's and Jose's. They were shingled roofs ;
they will be just the same ; all the rest are only
walls. Antonio's mother threw hers down ; I don't
know how the old woman ever had the strength ;
they said she was like a fury. She said nobody
should ever live in those walls again ; and she took
a pole, and made a great hole in one side, and then
she ran Antonio's wagon against it with all her
might, till it fell in. No, Majella. It will be
dreadful"

" Would n't you like to go into the graveyard
again, Alessandro?" she said timidly.

" The saints forbid ! " he said solemnly. " I think
it would make me a murderer to stand in that grave
yard ! If I had not you, my Majel, I should kill
some white man when I came out. Oh, do not speak
of it ! " he added, after a moment's silence ; " it takes
the strength all out of my blood again, Majella. It
feels as if I should die ! "

And the word " Temecula " was not mentioned be
tween them again until dusk the next day, when, as

RAMON A. 285

they were riding slowly along between low, wooded
hills, tliey suddenly came to an opening, a green,
marshy place, with a little thread of trickling water,
at which their horses stopped, and drank thirstily ;
and Eamona, looking ahead, saw lights twinkling in
the distance. " Lights, Alessandro, lights ! " she ex
claimed, pointing to them.

"Yes, Majella," he replied, " it is Temecula ;" and
springing off his pony he came to her side, and
putting both his hands on hers, said : " I have been
thinking, for a long way back, Carita, what is to be
done here. I do riot know. What does Majella
think will be wise ? If men have been sent out to
pursue us, they may be at Hartsel's. His store is
the place where everybody stops, everybody goes. I
dare not have you go there, Majella; yet I must
go. The only way I can get any money is from
Mr. Hartsel."

" 1 must wait somewhere while you go ! " said
Ramona, her heart beating as she gazed ahead into
the blackness of the great plain. It looked vast as
the sea. " That is the only safe thing, Alessandro."

" I think so too," he said ; " but, oh, I am afraid
for you ; and will not you be afraid ?"

" Yes," she replied, " I am afraid. But it is not
so dangerous as the other."

" If anything were to happen to me, and I could
not come back to you, Majella, if you give Baba
his reins he will take you safe home, — he and
Capitan."

Kamona shrieked aloud. She had not thought of
this possibility. Alessandro had thought of every
thing. " What could happen ? " she cried.

" I mean if the men were there, and if they took
me for stealing the horse," he said.

" But yon would not have the horse with you," she
said. " How could they take you ? "

286 RAMONA.

" That might n't make any difference," replied
Alessandro. " They might take me, to make me tell
where the horse was."

" Oh, Alessandro," sobbed Kamona,, " what shall
we do ! " Then in another second, gathering her
courage, she exclaimed, " Alessandro, I know what I
will do. I will stay in the graveyard. No one will
come there. Shall I not be safest there ? "

" Holy Virgin ! would my Majel stay there ? " ex
claimed Alessandro.

" Why not ? " she said. " It is not the dead that
wrill harm us. They would all help us if they could.
I have no fear. I will wait there while you go ; and
if you do not come in an hour, I will come to Mr.
Hartsel's after you. If there are men of the Seiiora's
there, they will know me ; they will not dare to
touch me. They will know that Felipe would punish
them. I will not be afraid. And if they are ordered
to take Baba, they can have him ; we can walk when
the pony is tired."

Her confidence was contagious. " My wood-dove has
in her breast the heart of the lion," said Alessandro,
fondly. " We will do as she says. She is wise ; "
and he turned their horses' heads in the direction of
the graveyard. It was surrounded by a low adobe
wall, with one small gate of wooden paling. As
they reached it, Alessandro exclaimed, " The thieves
have taken the gate ! "

" What could they have wanted with that ? " said
Kamona.

" To burn," he said doggedly. " It was wood ; but
it was very little. They might have left the graves
safe from wild beasts and cattle ! "

As they entered the enclosure, a dark figure rose
from one of the graves. Eamona started.

" Fear nothing," whispered Alessandro. " It must
be one of our people. I am glad ; now you will not

RAMONA. 287

be alone. It is Carmena, I am sure. That was the
corner where they buried Jose. I will speak to her ; "
and leaving Eamona at the gate, he went slowly
on, saying in a low voice, in the Luiseno language,
1 " Carmena, is that you ? Have no fear. It is I,
Alessandro !"

It was Carmena. The poor creature, nearly crazed
with grief, was spending her days by her baby's grave
in Pachanga, and her nights by her husband's in
Teniecula. She dared not come to Temecula by day,
for the Americans were there, and she feared them.
Alter a short talk with her, Alessaiidro returned, lead
ing her along. Bringing her to Eamona's side, he laid
her feverish hand in Eamona's, and said : " Majella, I
have told her all. She cannot speak a word of Span
ish, but she is very glad, she says, that you have
come with me, and she will stay close by your side
till I come back."

Eamona's tender heart ached with desire to com
fort the girl ; but all she could do was to press her
hand in silence. Even in the darkness she could
see the hollow, mournful eyes and the wasted cheek.
Words are less needful to sorrow than to joy. Car
mena felt in every fibre how Eamoua was pitying
her. Presently she made a gentle motion, as if to
draw her from the saddle. Eamona bent down and
looked inquiringly into her face. Again she drew
her gently with one hand, and with the other pointed
to the corner from which she had come. Eamona
understood. " She wants to show me her husband's
grave," she thought. " She does not like to be away
from it. I will go with her."

Dismounting, and taking Baba's bridle over her
arm, she bowed her head assentingly, and still keep
ing firm hold of Carmena's hand, followed her. The
graves were thick, and irregularly placed, each mound
marked by a small wooden cross. Carmena led with

288 RAMONA.

the swift step of one who knew each inch of the way
by heart. More than once Eamona stumbled and
nearly fell, and Baba was impatient and restive at
the strange inequalities under his feet. When they
reached the corner, Eamona saw the fresh-piled earth*
of the new grave. Uttering a wailing cry, Carmena,
'drawing Eamona to the edge of it, pointed down with
her right hand, then laid both hands on her heart,
and gazed at Eamona piteously. Eamona burst into
weeping, and again clasping Carmena's hand, laid it
on her own breast, to show her sympathy. Carmena
did not weep. She was long past that ; and she felt
for the moment lifted out of herself by the sweet,
sudden sympathy of this stranger, — this girl like her
self, yet so different, so wonderful, so beautiful, Car
mena was sure she must be. Had the saints sent
her from heaven to Alessandro ? What did it mean ?
Carmena's bosom was heaving with the things she
longed to say and to ask ; but all she could do was to
press Eamoua's hand again and again, and occasion
ally lay her soft cheek upon it.

" Now, was it not the saints that put it into my
head to come to the graveyard ? " thought Eaniona.
" What a comfort to this poor heart-broken thing to
see Alessandro ! And she keeps me from all fear.
Holy Virgin ! but I had died of terror here all alone.
Not that the dead would harm me ; but simply from
the vast, silent plain, and the gloom."

Soon Carmena made signs to Eamona that they
would return to the gate. Considerate and thought
ful, she remembered that Alessandro would expect to
find them there. But it was a long and weary watch
they had, waiting for Alessandro to come.

After leaving them, and tethering his pony, he had
struck off at a quick run for Havtsel's, which was
perhaps an eighth of a mile from the graveyard. His
own old home lay a little to the right. As he drew

RAMON A. 289

near, he saw a light in its windows. He stopped as
if shot. " A light in our house ! " he exclaimed ; and
he clenched his hands. " Those cursed robbers have
gone into it to live already ! " His blood seemed
turning to fire. Earnona would not have recognized
the face of her Alessandro now. It was full of im
placable vengeance. Involuntarily he felt for his
knife. It was gone. His gun he had left inside the
graveyard, leaning against the wall. Ah ! in the
graveyard ! Yes, and there also was Eamona waiting
for him. Thoughts of vengeance fled. The world
held now but one work, one hope, one passion, for
him. But he would at least see who were these
dwellers in his father's house. A fierce desire to see
their faces burned within him. Why should he thus
torture himself ? Why, indeed ? But he must. He
would see the new home-life already begun on the
grave of his. Stealthily creeping under the window
from which the light shone, he listened. He heard
children's voices ; a woman's voice ; at intervals the
voice of a man, gruff and surly ; various household
sounds also. It was evidently the supper-hour. Cau
tiously raising himself till his eyes were on a level
with the lowest panes in the window, he looked in.

A table was set in the middle of the floor, and
there were sitting at it a man, woman, and two
children. The youngest, little more than a baby,
sat in its high chair, drumming with a spoon on the
table, impatient for its supper. The room was in
great confusion, — beds made on the floor, open boxes
half unpacked, saddles and harness thrown down in
corners ; evidently there were new-comers into the
house. The window was open by an inch. It had
warped, and would not shut down. Bitterly Alessan
dro recollected how he had put off from day to day
the planing of that window to make it shut tight.
Now, thanks to that crack, he could hear all that

10

200 RAMON A.

was said. The woman looked weary and worn. Her
face was a sensitive one, and her voice kindly ; but
the man had the countenance of a brute, — of a hu
man brute. Why do we malign the so-called brute
creation, making their names a unit of comparison
for base traits which never one of them possessed ?

" It seems as if I never should get to rights in
this world ! " said the woman. Alessandro understood
enough English to gather the meaning of what she
said. He listened eagerly. "When will the next
wagon get here ? "

" I don't know," growled her husband. " There 's
been a slide in that cursed canon, and blocked the
road. They won't be here for several days yet.
Hain't you got stuff enough round now ? If you 'd
clear up what 's here now, then 't would be time
enough to grumble because you had n't got every
thing."

" But, John," she replied, " I can 't clear up till
the bureau comes, to put the things away in, and the
bedsteads. I can't seem to do anything."

" You can grumble, I take notice," he answered.
"That's about all you women are good for, anyhow.
There was a first-rate raw-hide bedstead in here. If
Eothsaker had n't been such a fool 's to let those dogs
of Indians carry off all their truck, we might have
had that ! "

The woman looked at him reproachfully, but did
not speak for a moment. Then her cheeks flushed,
and seeming unable to repress the speech, she ex
claimed, " Well, I 'm thankful enough he did let the
poor things take their furniture. I 'd never have slept
a wink on that bedstead, I know, if it had ha' been
left here. It 's bad enough to take their houses this
way ! "

" Oh, you shut up your head for a blamed fool,
will you i " cried the man. He was half drunk, his

RAMONA. 291

worst and most dangerous state. She glanced at him
half timorously, half indignantly, and turning to the
children, began feeding the baby. At that second the
other child looked up, and catching sight of the out
line of Alessaudro's head, cried out, " There 's a man
there ! There, at the window ! "

Alessandro threw himself flat ' on the ground, and
held his breath. Had he imperilled all, brought
danger on himself and Eamoua, by yielding to this
mad impulse to look once more inside the walls of
his home ? With a fearful oath, the half-drunken
man exclaimed, " One of those damned Indians, I
expect. I've seen several hangin' round to-day.
We '11 have to shoot two or three of 'em yet, before
we 're rid of 'em ! " and he took his gun down from
the pegs above the fireplace, and went to the door
with it in his hand.

" Oh, don't fire, father, don't ! " cried the woman.
" They '11 come and murder us all in our sleep if you
do f Don't fire ! " and she pulled him back by the
sleeve.

Shaking her off, with another oath, he stepped
across the threshold, and stood listening, and peering
into the darkness. Alessandro's heart beat like a
hammer in his breast. Except for the thought of
Eamona, he would have sprung on the man, seized
his gun, and killed him.

" I don't believe it was anybody, after all, father,"
persisted the woman. " Bud 's always seem' things.
I don't believe there was anybody there. Come in ;
supper 's gettin' all cold."

" Well, I '11 jest fire, to let 'em know there 's powder
*n shot round here," said the fiend. " If it hits any on
'em roamin' round, he won't know what hurt him ; "
and levelling his gun at random, with his drunken,
unsteady hand he fired. The bullet whistled away
harmlessly into the empty darkness. Hearkening a

292 RAMONA.

few moments, and hearing no cry, he hiccupped,
" Mi-i-issed him that time," and went in to his
supper.

Alessandro did not dare to stir for a long time*
How he cursed his own folly in having brought him-»
self into this plight ! What needless pain of waiting
he was inflicting on the faithful one, watching for
him in that desolate and fearful place of graves ! At
last he ventured, — sliding along on his belly a few
inches at a time, till, several rods from the house, he
dared at last to spring to his feet and bound away at
full speed for Hartsel's.

Hartsel's was one of those mongrel establishments
to be seen nowhere except in Southern California.
Half shop, half farm, half tavern, it gathered up to
itself all the threads of the life of the whole region.
Indians, ranchmen, travellers of all sorts, traded at
Hartsel's, drank at Hartsel's, slept at Hartsel's. It
was the only place of its kind within a radius of
twenty miles ; and it was the least bad place of its
kind within a much wider radius.

Hartsel was by no means a bad fellow — when he
was sober ; but as that condition was not so frequent
as it should have been, he sometimes came near being
a very bad fellow indeed. At such times everybody
was afraid of him, — wife, children, travellers, ranch
men, and all. " It was only a question of time and oc
casion," they said, "Hartsel's killing somebody sooner
or later ; " and it looked as if the time were drawing
near fast. But, out of his cups, Hartsel was kindly,
and fairly truthful ; entertaining, too, to a degree which
held many a wayfarer chained to his chair till small
hours of the morning, listening to his landlord's talk.
How he had drifted from Alsace to San Diego County,
he could hardly have told in minute detail himself,
there had been so many stages and phases of the
strange journey ; but he had come to his last halt now.

EAMONA. 293

Here, in this Temecula, he would lay his bones.
He liked the country. He liked the wild life, and,
for a wonder, he liked the Indians. Many a good
word he spoke for them to travellers who believed no
good of the race, and evidently listened with polite
incredulity when he would say, as he often did : " I 've
never lost a dollar off these Indians yet. They do
all their trading with me. There 's some of them I
trust as high 's a hundred dollars. If they can't pay
this year, they '11 pay next ; and if they die, their rela
tions will pay their debts for them, a little at a time,
till they 've got it all paid off. They '11 pay in wheat,
or bring a steer, maybe, or baskets or mats the
women make ; but they '11 pay. They're honester 'n
the general run of Mexicans about paying ; I mean
Mexicans that are as poor 's they are."

Hartsel's dwelling-house was a long, low adobe
building, with still lower flanking additions, in which
were bedrooms for travellers, the kitchen, and store
rooms. The shop was a separate building, of rough
planks, a story and a half high, the loft of which
was one great dormitory well provided with beds on
the floor, but with no other article of bedroom furni
ture. They who slept in this loft had no fastidious
standards of personal luxury. These two buildings,
with some half-dozen out-houses of one sort and an
other, stood in an enclosure surrounded by a low white
picket fence, which gave to the place a certain home
like look, spite of the neglected condition of the
ground, which was bare sand, or sparsely tufted
with weeds and wild grass. A few plants, parched
and straggling, stood in pots and tin cans around
the door of the dwelling-house. One hardly knew
whether they made the place look less desolate or
more so. But they were token of a woman's hand,
and of a nature which craved something more than
the unredeemed wilderness around her afforded.

294 RAMONA.

A dull and lurid light streamed out from the wide-
open door of the store. Alessandro drew cautiously
near. The place was full of men, and he heard loud
laughing and talking. He dared not go in. Stealing
around to the rear, he leaped the fence, and went to
the other house and opened the kitchen door. Here
he was not afraid. Mrs. Hartsel had never any but
Indian servants in her employ. The kitchen was
lighted only by one dim candle. On the stove were
sputtering and hissing all the pots and frying-pans it
would hold. Much cooking was evidently going on
for the men who were noisily rollicking in the other
house.

Seating himself by the fire, Alessandro waited. In
a few moments Mrs. Hartsel came hurrying back to
her work. It was no uncommon experience to find
an Indian quietly sitting by her fire. In the dim
light she did not recognize Alessandro, but mis
took him, as he sat bowed over, his head in his
hands, for old Eamon, who was a sort of recognized
hanger-on of the place, earning his living there by
odd jobs of fetching and carrying, and anything else
he could do.

" Bun, Ramon," she said, " and bring me moro
wood ; this cottonwood is so dry, it burns out like
rotten punk ; I 'm off my feet to-night, with all these
men to cook for ; " then turning to the table, she began
cutting her bread, and did not see how tall and unlike
Ramon was the man who silently rose and went out
to do her bidding. When, a few moments later, Ales
sandro re-entered, bringing a huge armful of wood,
which it would have cost poor old Ramon three
journeys at least to bring, and throwing it down,
on the hearth, said, " Will that be enough, Mrs.
Hartsel ? " she gave a scream of surprise, and dropped
her knife. " Why, who — " she began ; then, seeing
his face, her own lighting up with pleasure, she con-

RAMONA. 295

tinued, " Alessandro ! Is it you ? Why, I took you
in the dark for old Eamon ! I thought you were in
Pachanga."

" In Pachanga ! " Then as yet no one had come
from the Senora Moreno's to Hartsel's in search of
him and the Senorita Ramona ! Alessandro's heart
felt almost light in his bosom. From the one imme
diate danger he had dreaded, they were safe ; but no
trace of emotion showed on his face, and he did not
raise his eyes as he replied : " I have been in Pachanga.
My father is dead. I have buried him there."

" Oh, Alessandro ! Did he die ?" cried the kindty
woman, coming close to Alessandro, and laying her
hand on his shoulder. " I heard he was sick." She
paused ; she did not know what to say. She had suf
fered so at the time of the ejectment of the Indians,
that it had made her ill. For two days she had kept
her doors shut and her windows close curtained, that
she need not see the terrible sights. She was not a
woman of many words. She was a Mexican, but there
were those who said that some Indian blood ran in her
veins. This was not improbable ; and it seemed more
than ever probable now, as she stood still by Ales
sandro's side, her hand on his shoulder, her eyes fixed
in distress on his face. How he had altered ! How
well she recollected his lithe figure, his alert motion,
his superb bearing, his handsome face, when she last
saw him in the spring !

" You were away all summer, Alessandro ? " she
said at last, turning back to her work.

" Yes," he said ; " at the Senora Moreno's."

" So I heard," she said. " That is a fine great place,
is it not ? Is her son grown a fine man ? He was a
lad when I saw him. He went through here with
a drove of sheep once."

"Ay, he is a man now," said Alessandro, and
buried his face in his hands again.

296 EAMONA.

" Poor fellow ! I don't wonder he does not want
to speak," thought Mrs. Hartsel. " I '11 just let him
alone ; " and she spoke no more for some moments.

Alessandro sat still by the fire. A strange apathy
seemed to have seized him ; at last he said wearily :
" I must be going now. I wanted to see Mr. Hartsel
a minute, but he seenis to be busy in the store."

" Yes," she said, " a lot of San Francisco men ;
they belong to the company that 's coming in here in
the valley ; they 've been here two days. Oh, Ales
sandro," she continued, bethinking herself, "Jim's
got your violin here ; Jose* brought it."

"Yes, I know it," answered Alessandro. "Jose"
told me ; and that was one thing I stopped for."

" I '11 run and get it," she exclaimed.

" No," said Alessandro, in a slow, husky voice. " I
do not want it. I thought Mr. Hartsel might buy
it. I want some money. It was not mine ; it was
my father's. It is a great deal better than mine.
My father said it would bring a great deal of money.
It is very old."

" Indeed it is," she replied ; " one of those men in
there was looking at it last night. He was astonished
at it, and he would not believe Jim when he told
him about its having come from the Mission."

" Does he play ? Will he buy it ? " cried Ales
sandro.

" I don't know ; I '11 call Jim," she said ; and run
ning out she looked in at the other door, saying,
" Jim ! Jim ! "

Alas, Jim was in no condition to reply. At her
first glance in his face, her countenance hardened into
an expression of disgust and defiance. Returning to
the kitchen, she said scornfully, disdaining all dis
guises, " Jim 's drunk. ISTo use your talking to him
to-night. Wait till morning."

" Till morning ! " A groan escaped from Ales-

RAMONA. 297

sandro, in spite of himself. " I can't ! " he cried. " I
must go on to-night."

" Why, what for ? " exclaimed Mrs. Hartsel, much
astonished. For one brief second Alessandro re
volved in his mind the idea of confiding everything
to her ; only for a second, however. No ; the fewer
knew his secret and Eamona's, the better.

" I must be in San Diego to-morrow," he said.

" Got work there ? " she said.

" Yes ; that is, in San Pasquale," he said ; " and I
ought to have been there three days ago."

Mrs. Hartsel mused. "Jim can't do anything
to-night," she said ; " that 's certain. You might see
the man yourself, and ask him if he 'd buy it."

Alessandro shook his head. An invincible repug
nance withheld him. He could not face one of these
Americans who were "coming in" to his valley.
Mrs. Hartsel understood.

" I '11 tell you, Alessandro," said the kindly woman,
" I '11 give you what money you need to-night, and
then, if you say so, Jim '11 sell the violin to-morrow,
if that man wants it, and you can pay me back out of
that, and when you 're along this way again you can
have the rest. Jim '11 make as good a trade for you
's he can. He 's a real good friend to all of you,
Alessandro, when he 's himself."

" I know it, Mrs. Hartsel. I 'd trust Mr. Hartsel
more than any other man in this country," said
Alessandro. " He 's about the only white man I do
trust ! "

Mrs. Hartsel was fumbling in a deep pocket in
her under-petticoat. Gold-piece after gold-piece she
drew out. " Humph ! Got more 'n I thought I had,"
she said. " I Ve kept all that 's been paid in here to
day, for I knew Jim 'd be drunk before night."

Alessandro's eyes fastened on the gold. How he
longed for an abundance of those little shining pieces

298 RAMONA.

for his Majella ! He sighed as Mrs. Hartsel counted
them out on the table, — one, two, three, four, bright
five-dollar pieces.

" That is as much as I dare take," said Alessandro,
when she put down the fourth. " Will you trust me
for so much ? " he added sadly. " You know I have
nothing left now. Mrs. Hartsel, I am only a beggar,
till I get some work to do."

The tears came into Mrs. Hartsel's eyes. " It 's a
shame ! " she said, — "a shame, Alessandro ! Jim and
I have n't thought of anything else, since it happened.
Jim says they '11 never prosper, never. Trust you ?
Yes, indeed. Jim and 1 11 trust you, or your father,
the last day of our lives."

" I 'm glad he is dead," said Alessandro, as he
knotted the gold into his handkerchief and put it
into his bosom. " But he was murdered, Mrs. Hart
sel, — murdered, just as much as if they had fired a
bullet into him."

" That s true ! " she exclaimed vehemently. " I say
so too ; and so was Jose. That 's just what I said at
the time, — that bullets would not be half so inhu
man ! "

The words had hardly left her lips, when the door
from the dining-room burst open, and a dozen men,
headed by the drunken Jim, came stumbling, laugh
ing, reeling into the kitchen.

" Where 's supper ! Give us our supper ! What are
you about with your Indian here ? I '11 teach you
how to cook ham ! " stammered Jim, making a lurch
towards the stove. The men behind caught him and
saved him. Eying the group with slow scorn, Mrs.
Hartsel, who had not a cowardly nerve in her body,
said : " Gentlemen, if you will take your seats at
the table, I will bring in your supper immediately.
It is all ready."

One or two of the soberer ones, shamed by her tone,

RAMON A. 299

led the rest back into the dining-room, where, seat
ing themselves, they began to pound the table and
swing the chairs, swearing, and singing ribald songs.

" Get off as quick as you can, Alessandro," whis
pered Mrs. Hartsel, as she passed by him, standing
like a statue, his eyes, full of hatred and contempt,
fixed on the tipsy group. " You 'd better go. There '3
no knowing what they '11 do next."

" Are you not afraid ? " he said in a low tone.

" No ! " she said. " I 'm used to it. I can always
manage Jim. And Ramon 's round somewhere, — he
and the bull-pups ; if worse comes to worst, I can
call the dogs. These San Francisco fellows are
always the worst to get drunk. But you'd better
get out of the way ! "

" And these are the men that have stolen OUT
lands, and killed my father, and Jose, and Carmena's
baby ! " thought Alessandfo, as he ran swiftly back
towards the graveyard. "And Father Salvierderra
says, God is good. It must be the saints no longer
pray to Him for us ! "

But Alessandro' s heart was too full of other
thoughts, now, to dwell long on past wrongs, how
ever bitter. The present called him too loudly.
Putting his hand in his bosom, and feeling the soft,
knotted handkerchief, he thought : " Twenty dollars !
It is not much ! But it will buy food for many days
for my Majella and for Babal"

XVIII.

"TpXCEPT for the reassuring help of Carmena's
I'J presence by her side, Ramona would never have
had courage to remain during this long hour in the
graveyard. As it was, she twice resolved to bear
the suspense no longer, and made a movement to go.
The chance of Alessandro's encountering at Hartsel's
the men sent in pursuit of him and of Baba, loomed
in her thoughts into a more and more frightful danger
each moment she reflected upon it. It was a most
unfortunate suggestion for Alessandro to have made.
Her excited fancy went on and on, picturing the
possible scenes which might be going on almost
within stone's-throw of where she was sitting, help
less, in the midnight darkness, — Alessandro seized,
tied, treated as a thief, and she, Ramona, not there
to vindicate him, to terrify the men into letting him
go. She could not bear it ; she would ride boldly to
Hartsel's door. But when she made a motion as if
she would go, and said in the soft Spanish, of which
Carmena knew no word, but which yet somehow con
veyed Ramona's meaning, " I must go ! It is too long !
I cannot wait here ! " Carmena had clasped her hand
tighter, and said in the San Luiseno tongue, of which
Ramona knew no word, but which yet somehow con
veyed Carmena's meaning, " 0 beloved lady, you
must not go ! Waiting is the only safe thing. Ales
sandro said, to wait here. He will come." The word
" Alessandro " was plain. Yes, Alessandro had said,
wait ; Carmena was right. She would obey, but it was
a fearful ordeal. It was strange how Ramona, who

RAMONA. 301

felt herself preternaturally brave, afraid of nothing,
so long as Alessaudro was by her side, became timor
ous and wretched the instant he was lost to her sight.
When she first heard his steps coming, she quivered
with terror lest they might not be his. The next sec
ond she knew ; and with a glad cry, " Alessandro ! Ales-
sandro ! " she bounded to him, dropping Baba's reins.

Sighing gently, Carmena picked up the reins, and
stood still, holding the horse, while the lovers clasped
each other with breathless words. " How she loves
Alessandro ! " thought the widowed Carmena. " Will
they leave him alive to stay with her ? It is better
not to love ! " But there was no bitter envy in her
mind for the two who were thus blest while she went
desolate. All of Pablo's people had great affection for
Alessandro. They had looked forward to his being
over them in his father's place. They knew his
goodness, and were proud of his superiority to
themselves.

"Majella, you tremble," said Alessandro, as he
threw his arms around her. " You have feared ! Yet
you were not alone." He glanced at Carinena's mo
tionless figure, standing by Baba.

"No, not alone, dear Alessandro; but it was so
long ! " replied Ramona ; " and I feared the men had
taken you, as you feared. Was there any one there ? "

" No ! No one had heard anything. All was well.
They thought I had just come from Pachanga," he
answered.

"Except for Carmena, I should have ridden after
you half an hour ago," continued Eamona. " But she
told me to wait."

" She told you ! " repeated Alessandro. " How did
you understand her speech ? "

" I do not know. Was it not a strange thing ? "
replied Rarnona. " She spoke in your tongue, but I
thought I understood her. Ask her if she did not

302 RAMONA.

say that I must not go ; that it was safer to wait ; that
you had so said, and you would soon come."

Alessandro repeated the words to Carmena. " Did
you say that ? " he asked.

" Yes," answered Carmena.

"You see, then, she has understood the Luiseno
words," he said delightedly. " She is one of us."

" Yes," said Carmena, gravely, " she is one of us ! "
Then, taking Ramona's hand in both of her own for
farewell, she repeated, in a tone as of dire prophecy,
" One of us, Alessandro ! one of us ! " And as she
gazed after their retreating forms, almost immediately
swallowed and lost in the darkness, she repeated the
words again to herself, — " One of us ! one of us !
Sorrow came to me ; she rides to meet it ! " and she
crept back to her husband's grave, and threw herself
down, to watch till the dawn.

The road which Alessandro would naturally have
taken would carry them directly by Hartsel's again.
But, wishing to avoid all risk of meeting or being
seen by any of the men on the place, he struck well
out to the north, to make a wide circuit around it.
This brought them past the place where Antonio's
house had stood. Here Alessandro halted, and put
ting his hand on Baba's rein, walked the horses close to
the pile of ruined walls. " This was Antonio's house,
Majella," he whispered. " I wish every house in the
valley had been pulled down like this. Old Juana
was right. The Americans are living in my father's
house, Majella," he went on, his whisper growing
thick with rage. " That was what kept me so long. I
was looking in at the window at them eating their sup
per. I thought I should go mad, Majella. If I had
had my gun, I should have shot them all dead ! "

An almost inarticulate gasp was Ramona's first
reply to this. "Living in your house!" she said.
" You saw them ? "

RAMONA. 303

" Yes," he said ; " the man, and his wife, and two
little children ; and the man came out, with his gun,
011 the doorstep, and fired it. They thought they
heard something moving, and it might be an Indian ;
so he fired. That was what kept me so long."

Just at this moment Baba tripped over some small,
object on the ground. A few steps farther, and he
tripped again. " There is something caught round his
foot, Alessaudro," said llamona. " It keeps moving."

Alessandro jumped off his horse, and kneeling
down, exclaimed, " It 's a stake, — and the lariat fas-
ened to it. Holy Virgin ! what — " The rest of his
ejaculation was inaudible. The next Ramona knew,
he had run swiftly on, a rod or two. Baba had fol
lowed, and Capitan and the pony ; and there stood a
splendid black horse, as big as Baba, and Alessandro
talking under his breath to him, and clapping both his
hands over the horse's nose, to stop him, as often as
he began whinnying ; and it seemed hardly a second
more before he had his saddle off the poor little
Indian pony, and striking it sharply on its sides had
turned it free, had saddled the black horse, and leap
ing on his back, said, with almost a sob in his voice :
" My Majella, it is Benito, my own Benito. Now the
saints indeed have helped us ! Oh, the ass, the idiot,
to stake out Benito with such a stake as that ! A jack
rabbit had pulled it up. Now, my Majella, we will
gallop I Faster ! faster ! I will not breathe easy till
we are out of this cursed valley. When we are once
in the Santa Margarita Canon, I know a trail they
will never find ! "

Like the wind galloped Benito, — Alessandro half
lying on his back, stroking his forehead, whispering to
him, the horse snorting with joy : which were gladder
of the two, horse or man, could not be said. And
neck by neck with Benito came Baba. How the
ground flew away under their feet ! This was com-

304 RAMONA.

panionship, indeed, worthy of Baba's best powers.
Not in all the California herds could be found two
superber horses than Benito and Baba. A wild,
almost reckless joy took possession of Alessandro.
Earaona was half terrified as she heard him still
talking, talking to Benito. For an hour they did not
draw rein. Both Benito and Alessandro knew every
inch of the ground. Then, just as they had descended
into the deepest part of the canon, Alessandro sud
denly reined sharply to the left, and began climbing
the precipitous wall. " Can you follow, dearest
Majella ? " he cried.

" Do you suppose Benito can do anything that
Baba cannot ? " she retorted, pressing on closely.

But Baba did not like it. Except for the stimu
lus of Benito ahead, he would have given Eamona
trouble.

" There is only a little, rough like this, dear," called
Alessandro, as he leaped a fallen tree, and halted to
see how Baba took it. " Good ! " he cried, as Baba
jumped it like a deer. "Good! Majella! We have
got the two best horses in the country. You '11 see
they are alike, when daylight comes. I have often
wondered they were so much alike. They would go
together splendidly."

After a few rods of this steep climbing they came
out on the top of the canon's south wall, in a
dense oak forest comparatively free from underbrush.
" Now," said Alessandro, " I can go from here to San
Diego by paths that no white man knows. We will
be near there before daylight."

Already the keen salt air of the ocean smote their
faces. Kamona drank it in with delight. " I taste
salt in the air, Alessandro," she cried.

" Yes, it is the sea," he said. " This canon leads
straight to the sea. I wish we could go by the shore,
Majella. It is beautiful there. When it is still, the

RAMONA. 305

waves come as gently to the land as if they were in
play ; and you can ride along with your horse's feet
in the water, and the green cliffs almost over your
head ; and the air off the water is like wine in one's
head."

" Cannot we go there ? " she said longingly.
" Would it not be safe ? "

" I dare not," he answered regretfully. " Not
now, Majella ; for on the shore-way, at all times,
there are people going and coming."

" Some other time, Alessandro, we can come, after
we are married, and there is no danger?" she asked.

"Yes, Majella," he replied; but as he spoke the
words, he thought, " Will a time ever come when there
will be no danger ? "

The shore of the Pacific Ocean for many miles north
of San Diego is a succession of rounding promon
tories, walling the mouths of canons, down many of
which small streams make to the sea. These canons
are green and rich at bottom, and filled with trees,
chiefly oak. Beginning as little more than rifts in the
ground, they deepen and widen, till at their mouths
they have a beautiful crescent of shining beach from
an eighth to a quarter of a mile long. The one
which Alessandro hoped to reach before morning was
not a dozen miles from the old town of San Diego,
and commanded a fine view of the outer harbor.
When he was last in it, he had found it a nearly
impenetrable thicket of young oak-trees. Here, he
believed, they could hide safely all day, and after
nightfall ride into San Diego, be married at the
priest's house, and push on to San Pasquale that
same night. "All day, in that caiion, Majella can
look at the sea," he thought ; " but I will not tell her
now, for it may be the trees have been cut down, and
we cannot be so close to the shore."

It was near sunrise when they reached the place.
20

306 RAMONA.

The trees had not been cut down. Their tops, seen
from above, looked like a solid bed of moss filling in
the canon bottom. The sky and the sea were both
red. As Kamona looked down into this soft green
pathway, it seemed, leading out to the wide and
sparkling sea, she thought Alessandro had brought
her into a fairy-land.

" What a beautiful world ! " she cried ; and riding
up so close to Benito that she could lay her hand on
Alessaudro's, she said solemnly : " Do you not think
we ought to be very happy, Alessandro, in such a
beautiful world as this ? Do you think we might
sing our sunrise hymn here ? "

Alessandro glanced around. They were alone on
the breezy open ; it was not yet full dawn ; great
masses of crimson vapor were floating upward from
the hills behind San Diego. The light was still burn
ing in the light-house on the promontory walling the
inner harbor, but in a few moments more it would be
day. " No, Majella, not here ! " he said. " We must
not stay. As soon as the sun rises, a man or a horse
may be seen on this upper coast-line as far as eye
can reach. We must be among the trees with all
the speed we can make."

It was like a house with a high, thick roof of oak
tree-tops, the shelter they found. No sun penetrated
it ; a tiny trickle of water still remained, and some
grass along its rims was still green, spite of the long
drought, — a scanty meal for Baba and Benito, but
they ate it with relish in each other's company.

" They like each other, those two," said Kamona,
laughing, as she watched them. " They will be
friends."

" Ay," said Alessandro, also smiling. " Horses are
friends, like men, and can hate each other, like men,
too. Benito would never see Antonio's mare, the
little yellow one, that he did not let fly his heels at

RAMONA. 307

her; and she was as afraid, at sight of him, as a cat is
at a dog. Many a time I have laughecj. to see it."

" Know you the priest at San Diego ? " asked
Ramona.

" Not well," replied Alessandro. " He came seldom
to Temecula when I was there ; but he is a friend of
Indians. 1 know he came with the men from San
Diego at the time when there was fighting, and the
whites were in great terror ; and they said, except for
Father Gaspara's words, there would not have been a
white man left alive in Pala. My father had sent all
his people away before that fight began. He knew it
was coming, but he would have nothing to do with
it. He said the Indians were all crazy. It was no
use. They would only be killed themselves. That
is the worst thing, my Majella. The stupid Indians
fight and kill, and then what can we do ? The white
men think we are all the same. Father Gaspara has
never been to Pala, I heard, since that time. There
goes there now the San Juan Capistrano priest. He
is a bad man. He takes money from the starving
poor."

" A priest ! " ejaculated Ramona, horror-stricken.

" Ay ! a priest ! " replied Alessandro. " They are
not all good, — not like Father Salvierderra."

" Oh, if we could but have gone to Father Salvier
derra ! " exclaimed Ramona, involuntarily.

Alessandro looked distressed. " It would have
been much more danger, Majella," he said, " and I had
no knowledge of work I could do there."

His look made Ramona remorseful at once. How
cruel to lay one feather-weight of additional burden
on this loving man ! " Oil, this is much better,
really," she said. " I did not mean what I said. It
is only because I have always loved Father Salvier
derra so. And the Senora will tell him what is not
true. Could we not send him a letter, Alessandro ? "

308 RAMON A.

"There is a Santa Inez Indian I know," replied
Alessandro, " who comes down with nets to sell,
sometimes, to Temecula. I know not if he goes to
San Diego. If I could get speech with him, he would
go up from Santa Inez to Santa Barbara for me, I|
am sure ; for once he lay in my father's house, sick
for many weeks, and I nursed him, and since then
he is always begging me to take a net from him,
whenever he comes. It is not two days from Santa
Inez to Santa Barbara."

" I wish it were the olden time now, Alessandro,"
sighed Eamona, " when the men like Father Salvier-
derra had all the country. Then there would be work
for all, at the Missions. The Senora says the Missions
were like palaces, and that there were thousands of
Indians in every one of them ; thousands and thou
sands, all working so happy and peaceful."

" The Senora does not know all that happened at
the Missions," replied Alessandro. " My father says
that at some of them were dreadful things, when bad
men had power. Never any such things at San Luis
Key. Father Peyri was like a father to all his Indians.
My father says that they would all of them lie down
in a fire for him, if he had commanded it. And
when he went away, to leave the country, when his
heart was broken, and the Mission all ruined, he
had to fly by night, Majella, j ust as you and I have
done ; for if the Indians had known it, they would
have risen up to keep him. There was a ship here in
San Diego harbor, to sail for Mexico, and the Father
made up his mind to go in it ; and it was over this
same road we have come, my Majella, that he rode,
and by night ; and my father was the only one he
trusted to know it. My father came with him ; they
took the swiftest horses, and they rode all night, and
my father carried in front of him, on the horse, a box
of the sacred things of the altar, very heavy. And

RAMONA. 309

many a time my father has told me the story, how
they got to San Diego at daybreak, and the Father
was rowed out to the ship in a little boat ; and not
much more than on board was he, my father stand
ing like one dead on the shore, watching, he loved
him so, when, lo ! he heard a great crying, and
shouting, and trampling of horses' feet, and there
came galloping down to the water's edge three
hundred of the Indians from San Luis Eey, who had
found out that the Father had gone to San Diego to
take ship, and they had ridden all night on his track,
to fetch him back. And when my father pointed to
the ship, and told them he was already on board,
they set up a cry fit to bring the very sky down ;
and some of them flung themselves into the sea, and
swam out to the ship, and cried and begged to be
taken on board and go with him. And Father Peyri
stood on the deck, blessing them, and saying fare
well, with the tears running on his face ; and one of
the Indians — how they never knew — made shift
to climb up on the chains and ropes, and got into the
ship itself ; and they let him stay, and he sailed away
with the Father. And my father said he was all his
life sorry that he himself had not thought to do the
same thing ; but he was like one dumb and deaf and
with no head, he was so unhappy at the Father's
going."

"Was it here, in this very harbor ? " asked Eamona,
in breathless interest, pointing out towards the blue
water of which they could see a broad belt framed
by their leafy foreground arch of oak tops.

"Ay, just there he sailed, — as that ship goes
now," he exclaimed, as a white-sailed schooner sailed
swiftly by, going out to sea. " But the ship lay at
first inside the bar ; you cannot see the inside har
bor from here. It is the most beautiful water I have
ever seen, Majella. The two high lands come out

310 RAMONA.

like two arms to hold it and keep it safe, as if they
loved it."

" But, Alessandro," continued Earaona, " were there
really bad men at the other Missions ? Surely not the
Franciscan Fathers ? "

" Perhaps not the Fathers themselves, but the men
under them. It was too much power, Majella. When
my father has told me how it was, it has seemed to
me I should not have liked to be as he was. It is
not right that one man should have so much power.
There was one at the San Gabriel Mission; he was
an Indian. He had been set over the rest ; and when
a whole band of them ran away one time, and went
back into the mountains, he went after them ; and he
brought back a piece of each man's ear ; the pieces
were strung on a string ; and he laughed, and said
that was to know them by again, — by their clipped
ears. An old woman, a Gabrieleno, who came over to
Ternecula, told me she saw that. She lived at the
Mission herself. The Indians did not all want to
come to the Missions ; some of them preferred to stay
in the woods, and live as they always had lived ; and
I think they had a right to do that if they preferred,
Majella. It was stupid of them to stay and be like
beasts, and not know anything ; but do you not think
they had the right ? "

" It is the command to preach the gospel to every
creature," replied the pious Eamona. "That is what
Father Salvierderra said was the reason the Francis
cans came here. I think they ought to have made
the Indians listen. But that was dreadful about the
ears, Alessandro. Do you believe it ? "

"The old woman laughed when she told it." he
answered. " She said it was a joke ; so I think it
was true. I know I would have killed the man who
tried to crop my ears that way."

" Did you ever tell that to Father Salvierderra ? "
asked Eamona.

RAMON A. 311

"No, Majella, It would not be polite," said
Alessandro.

" Well, I don't believe it," replied Ramona, in a
relieved tone. " I don't believe any Franciscan ever
could have permitted such things."

The great red light in the light-house tower had
again blazed out, and had been some time burning,
before Alessandro thought it prudent to resume their
journey. The road on which they must go into old
San'Diego, where Father Gaspara lived, was the public
road from San Diego to San Luis Key, and they were
almost sure to meet travellers on it.

But their fleet horses bore them so well, that it
was not late when they reached the town. Father
Gaspara' s house was at the end of a long, low adobe
building, which had served no mean purpose in the
old Presidio days, but was now fallen into decay ; and
all its rooms, except those occupied by the Father, had
been long uninhabited. On the opposite side of the
way, in a neglected, weedy open, stood his chapel, —
a poverty-stricken little place, its walls imperfectly
whitewashed, decorated by a few coarse pictures and
by broken sconces of looking-glass, rescued in their
dilapidated condition from the Mission buildings
now gone utterly to ruin. In these had been put
candle-holders of common tin, in which a few cheap
candles dimly lighted the room. Everything about it
was in unison with the atmosphere of the place, — the
most profoundly melancholy in all Southern Califor
nia. Here was the spot where that grand old Fran
ciscan, Padre Junipero Serra, began his work, full of the
devout and ardent purpose to reclaim the wilderness
and its peoples to his country and his Church ; on this
very beach he went up and down for those first
terrible weeks, nursing the sick, praying with the
dying, and burying the dead, from the pestilence-
stricken Mexican ships lying in the harbor. Here he

312 RAMON A.

baptized his first Indian converts, and founded his
first Mission. And the only traces now remaining of
his heroic labors and hard-won successes were a pile
of crumbling ruins, a few old olive-trees and palms ;
in less than another century even these would be
gone ; returned into the keeping of that mother, the
earth, who puts no headstones at the sacredest of her
graves.

Father Gaspara had been for many years at San
Diego. Although not a Franciscan, having, indeed, no
especial love for the order, he had been from the first
deeply impressed by the holy associations of the place.
He had a nature at once fiery and poetic ; there were
but three things he could have been, — a soldier, a poet,
or a priest. Circumstances had made him a priest ;
and the fire and the poetry which would have wielded
the sword or kindled the verse, had he found himself
set either to fight or to sing, had all gathered into
added force in his priestly vocation. The look of a
soldier he had never quite lost, — neither the look
nor the tread ; and his flashing dark eyes, heavy
black hair and beard, and quick elastic step, seemed
sometimes strangely out of harmony with his priest's
gown. And it was the sensitive soul of the poet in
him which had made him withdraw within himself
more and more, year after year, as he found himself
comparatively powerless to do anything for the hun
dreds of Indians that he would fain have seen gathered
once more, as of old, into the keeping of the Church.
He had made frequent visits to them in their shifting
refuges, following up family after family, band after
band, that he knew ; he had written bootless letter
after letter to the Government officials of one sort and
another, at Washington. He had made equally boot
less efforts to win some justice, some protection for
them, from officials nearer home ; he had endeavored
to stir the Church itself to greater efficiency in their

RAMON A. 313

behalf. Finally, weary, disheartened, and indignant
with that intense, suppressed indignation which the
poetic temperament alone can feel, he had ceased, —
had said, " It is of no use ; I will speak no word ; I am
done ; I can bear no more ! " and settling down into
the routine of his parochial duties to the little Mexi
can and Irish congregation of his charge in San Diego,
he had abandoned all effort to do more for the Indians
than visit their chief settlements once or twice a year,
to administer the sacraments. When fresh outrages
were brought to his notice, he paced his room, plucked
fiercely at his black beard, with ejaculations, it is to be
feared, savoring more of the camp than the altar; but
he made no effort to do anything. Lighting his pipe,
he would sit down on the old bench in his tile-paved
veranda, and smoke by the hour, gazing out on the
placid water of the deserted harbor, brooding, ever
brooding, over the wrongs he could not redress.

A few paces off from his door stood the just begun
walls of a fine brick church, which it had been the
dream and pride of his heart to see builded, and full of
worshippers. This, too, had failed. With San Diego's
repeatedly vanishing hopes and dreams of prosperity
had gone this hope and dream of Father Gaspara's. It
looked, now, as if it would be indeed a waste of money
to build a costly church on this site. Sentiment,
however sacred and loving towards the dead, must
yield to the demands of the living. To build a church
on the ground where Father Junipero first trod and
labored, would be a work to which no Catholic could
be indifferent ; but there were other and more press
ing claims to be met first. This was right. Yet the
sight of these silent walls, only a few feet high, was
a sore one to Father Gaspara, — a daily cross, which
he did not find grow lighter as he paced up and down
his veranda, year in and year out, in the balmy winter
and cool summer of that mainc climate.

314 RAMON A.

" Majella, the chapel is lighted ; but that is good ! *
exclaimed Alessandro, as they rode into the silent
plaza. " Father Gaspara must be there;" and jump
ing off his horse, he peered in at the uncurtained
window. " A marriage, Majella, — a marriage ! " he
cried, hastily returning. " Tliis, too, is good fortune.
We need not to wait long."

When the sacristan whispered to Father Gaspara
that an Indian couple had just come in, wishing to be
married, the Father frowned. His supper was waiting;
he had been out all day, over at the old Mission olive-
orchard, where he had not found things to his mind ;
the Indian man and wife whom he hired to take care
of the few acres the Church yet owned there had
been neg]ecting the Church lands and trees, to look
after their own. The father was vexed, tired, and
hungry, and the expression with which he regarded
Alessandro and Ramona, as they came towards him,
was one of the least prepossessing of which his dark
face was capable. Ramona, who had never knelt to any
priest save the gentle Father Salvierderra, and who
had supposed that all priests must look, at least,
friendly, was shocked at the sight of the impatient
visage confronting her. But, as his first glance fell
on Ramona, Father Gaspara's expression changed.

" What is all this ! " he thought ; and as quick as he
thought it, he exclaimed, in a severe tone, looking at
Ramona, " Woman, are you an Indian ? "

" Yes, Father," answered Ramona, gently. " My
mother was an Indian."

" Ah ! half-breed ! " thought Father Gaspara. " It
is strange how sometimes one of the types will con
quer, and sometimes another ! But this is no common
creature ; " and it was with a look of new interest and
sympathy on his face that he proceeded with the
ceremony, — the other couple, a middle-aged Irish
man, with his more than middle-aged bride, standing

RAMONA. 315

quietly by, and looking on with a vague sort of won
der in their ugly, impassive faces, as if it struck them
oddly that Indians should marry.

The book of the marriage-records was kept in
Father Gaspara's own rooms, locked up and hidden
even from his old housekeeper. He had had bitter
reason to take this precaution. It had been for more
than one man's interest to cut leaves out of this old
record, which dated back to 1769, and had many
pages written full in the hand of Father Junipevo
himself.

As they came out of the chapel, Father Gaspara
leading the way, the Irish couple shambling along
shamefacedly apart from each other, Alessandro, still
holding Karnona's hand in his, said, " Will you ride,
dear ? It is but a step."

" ISTo, thanks, dear Alessandro, I would rather walk,"
she replied ; and Alessandro slipping the bridles of the
two horses over his left arm, they walked on. Father
Gaspara heard the question and answer, and was still
more puzzled.

" He speaks as a gentleman speaks to a lady," he
mused. " What does it mean ? Who are they ? "

Father Gaspara was a well-born man, and in his
home in Spain had been used to associations far
superior to any which he had known in his Califor-
nian life. A gentle courtesy of tone and speech, such
as that with which Alessandro had addressed Ramona,
was not often heard in his parish. When they entered
his house, he again regarded them both attentively.
Ilamona wore on her head the usual black shawl of
the Mexican women. There was nothing distinctive,
to the Father's eye, in her iigure or face. In the dim
light of the one candle, — Father Gaspara allowed
himself no luxuries, — the exquisite coloring of her
skin and the deep blue of her eyes were not to be
seen. Alessandro's tall fi-nire and dignified bearing

316 KAMONA.

were not uncommon. The Father had seen many as
fine-looking Indian men. But his voice was remark
able, and he spoke better Spanish than was wont to
be heard from Indians.

" Where are you from ? " said the Father, as he held
his pen poised in hand, ready to write their names in
the old raw-hide-bound book.

" Temecula, Father," replied Alessandro.

Father Gaspara dropped his pen. " The village the
Americans drove out the other day ?" he cried.

"Yes, Father."

Father Gaspara sprang from his chair, took refuge
from his excitement, as usual, in pacing the floor.
" Go ! go ! I 'm done with you ! It 's all over," he
said fiercely to the Irish bride and groom, who had
given him their names and their fee, but were still
hanging about irresolute, not knowing if all were
ended or not. " A burning shame ! The most das
tardly thing I have seen yet in this land forsaken of
God ! " cried the Father. " I saw the particulars of
it in the San Diego paper yesterday." Then, coming
to a halt in front of Alessandro, he exclaimed : " The
paper said that the Indians were compelled to pay all
the costs of the suit ; that the sheriff took their cattle
to do it. Was that true ? "

" Yes, Father," replied Alessandro.

The Father strode up and down again, plucking at
his beard. " What are you going to do ? " he said.
" Where have you all gone ? There were two hundred
in your village the last time I was there."

" Some have gone over into Pachanga," replied
Alessandro, " some to San Pasquale, and the rest to
San Bernardino."

" Body of Jesus ! man ! But you take it with
philosophy ! " stormed Father Gaspara.

Alessandro did not understand the word " philoso
phy," but he knew what the Father meant. " Yes,

RAMONA. 317

Father," he said doggedly. "It is now twenty-one
days ago. I was not so at first. There is nothing
to be done."

Eamona held tight to Alessandro's hand. She was
afraid of this fierce, black-bearded priest, who dashed
back and forth, pouring out angry invectives.

" The United States Government will suffer for it ! *
he continued. " It is a Government of thieves and
robbers ! God will punish them. You will see ;
they will be visited with a curse, — a curse in their
borders ; their sons and their daughters shall be deso
late ! But why do I prate in these vain words ? My
son, tell me your names again ; " and he seated him
self once more at the table where the ancient mar
riage-record lay open.

After writing Alessandro's name, he turned to
Eamona. " And the woman's ? " he said.

Alessandro looked at Eamona. In the chapel he
had said simply, "Majella." What name should he
give more ?

Without a second's hesitation, Eamona answered,
" Majella. Majella Phail is my name."

She pronounced the word " Phail," slowly. It was
new to her. She had never seen it written ; as it
lingered on her lips, the Father, to whom also it was
a new word, misunderstood it, took it to be in two
syllables, and so wrote it.

The last step was taken in the disappearance of
Eamona. How should any one, searching in after
years, find any trace of Eamona Ortegna, in the woman
married under the name of " Majella Fayeel " ?

" No, no ! Put up your money, son," said Father
Gaspara, as Alessandro began to undo the knots
of the handkerchief in which his gold was tied.
" Put up your money. I '11 take no money from a
Temecula Indian. I would the Church had money
to give you. Where are you going now ? "

318 RAMON A.

"To San Pasquale, Father."

" Ah ! San Pasquale ! The head man there has the
old pueblo paper," said Father Gaspara. " He was
showing it to me the other day. That will, it may
be, save you there. But do not trust to it, son. Buy
yourself a piece of laud as the white man buys his.
Trust to nothing."

Alessandro looked anxiously in the Father's face.
" How is that, Father ? " he said. " I do not know."

" Well, their rules be thick as the crabs here on
the beach," replied Father Gaspara ; " and, faith, they
appear to me to be backwards of motion also, like
the crabs : but the lawyers understand. When you
have picked out your land, and have the money, come
to me, and I will go with you and see that you are
not cheated in the buying, so far as I can tell ; but
I myself arn at my wit's ends with their devices.
Farewell, son ! Farewell, daughter ! " he said, rising
from his chair. Hunger was again getting the better
of sympathy in Father Gaspara, and as he sat down
to his long-deferred supper, the Indian couple faded
from his mind ; but after supper was over, as he sat
smoking his pipe on the veranda, they returned again,
and lingered in his thoughts, — lingered strangely, it
seemed to him ; he could not shake off the impres
sion that there was something unusual about the
woman. " I shall hear of them again, some day," he
thought. And he thought rightly.

XIX.

A FTER leaving Father Gaspar'a's door, Alessandro
_L\. and Earaona rode slowly through the now de
serted plaza, and turned northward, on the river road,
leaving the old Presidio walls on their right. The
river was low, and they forded it without difficulty.

" I have seen this river so high that there was no
fording it for many days," said Alessandro ; " but that
was in spring."

"Then it is well we came not at that time," said
Ramona. " All the times have fallen out well for us,
Alessandro, — the dark nights, and the streams low ;
but look ! as I say it, there comes the moon ! " and
she pointed to the fine threadlike arc of the new
moon, just visible in the sky. " Not big enough to
do us any harm, however," she added. " But, dear
Alessandro, do you not think we are safe now ?"

" I know not, Majella, if ever we may be safe ; but
I hope so. I have been all day thinking I had gone
foolish last night, when I told Mrs. Hartsel that I
was on my way to San Pasquale. But if men should
come there asking for us, she would understand, I
think, and keep a still tongue. She would keep
harm from us if she could."

Their way from San Diego to San Pasquale lay at
first along a high mesa, or table-land, covered with
low shrub growths ; after some ten or twelve miles
of this, they descended among winding ridges, into
a narrow valley, — the Poway valley. It was here
that the Mexicans made one of their few abortive
efforts to repel the American forces.

320 RAMONA.

" Here were some Americans killed, in a fight
with the Mexicans, Majella," said Alessandro. " I
myself have a dozen bullets which I picked up in
the ground about here. Many a time I have looked
at them and thought if there should come another
war against the Americans, I would fire them
i again, if I could. Does Senor Felipe thinlf there is
any likelihood that his people will rise against them
any more ? If they would, they would have all the
Indians to help them, now. It would be a mercy if
they might be driven out of the land, Majella."

" Yes," sighed Majella. " But there is no hope.
I have heard the Senora speak of it with Felipe.
There is no hope. They have power, and great
riches, she said. Money is all that they think of.
To get money, they will commit any crime, even
murder. Every day there comes the news of their
murdering each other for gold. Mexicans kill each
other only for hate, Alessandro, — for hate, or in
anger ; never for gold."

" Indians, also," replied Alessandro. " Never one
Indian killed another, yet, for money. It is for
vengeance, always. For money ! Bah ! Majella, they
are dogs ! "

Rarely did Alessandro speak with such vehemence ;
but this last outrage on his people had kindled in his
veins a fire of scorn and hatred which would never
die out. Trust in an American was henceforth to
him impossible. The name was a synonym for fraud
and cruelty.

" They cannot all be so bad, I think, Alessandro,"
said Eamona. " There must be some that are honest ;
do you not think so ? "

"Where are they, then," he cried fiercely, — "the
ones who are good ? Among my people there are
always some that are bad ; but they are in disgrace.
My father punished them, the whole people punished

RAMON A 321

them. If there are Americans who are good, who
will not cheat and kill, why do they not send after
these robbers and punish them ? And how is it that
they make laws which cheat ? It was the American
law which took Temecula away from us, and gave
it to those men ! The law was on the side of the
thieves. No, Majella, it is a people that steals !
That is their name, — a people that steals, and that
kills for money. Is not that a good name for a great
people to bear, wrhen they are like the sands in the
sea, they are so many ? "

" That is what the Senora says," answered Eamona.
" She says they are all thieves ; that she knows not,
each day, but that on the next will come more of
them, with new laws, to take away more of her land.
She had once more than twice what she has now,
Alessandro."

" Yes," he replied ; " I know it. My father has
told me. He was with Father Peyri at the place,
when General Moreno was alive. Then all was his
to the sea, — all that laud we rode over the second
night, Majella."

" Yes," she said, " all to the sea ! That is what the
Senora is ever saying : ' To the sea ! ' Oh, the beau
tiful sea ! Can we behold it from San Pasquale,
Alessandro ? "

" No, my Majella, it is too far. San Pasquale is in the
valley; it has hills all around it like walls. But it is
good. Majella will love it ; and I will build a house,
Majella. All the people will help me. That is the
way with our people. In two days it will be done.
But it will be a poor place for my Majella," he said
sadly. Alessandro's heart was ill at ease. Truly a
strange bride's journey was this ; but Ramona felt no
fear.

" No place can be so poor that I do not choose it,
if you are there, rather than the most beautiful place

21

322 RAMON A.

in the world where yon are not, Alessandro," she
said.

" But my Majella loves things that are beautiful,"
said Alessandro. " She has lived like a queen."

" Oh, Alessandro," merrily laughed Eamona, "how
little you know of the way queens live ! Nothing
was fine at the Seiiora Moreno's, only comfortable ;
and any house you will build, I can make as com
fortable as that was ; it is nothing but trouble to
have one so large as the Senora's. Margarita used
to be tired to death, sweeping all those rooms in
which nobody lived except the blessed old San Luis
Bey saints. Alessandro, if we could have had just
one statue, either Saint Francis or the Madonna, to
bring luck to our house ! That is what I would like
better than all other things in the world. It is beau
tiful to sleep with the Madonna close to your bed.
She speaks often to you in dreams."

Alessandro fixed serious, questioning eyes on Ra-
moua as she uttered these words. When she spoke
like this, he felt indeed as if a being of some other
sphere had come to dwell by his side. " I cannot
find how to feel towards the saints as you do, my
Majella," he said. " I am afraid of them. It must
be because they love you, and do not love us. That
is what I believe, Majella. I believe they are dis
pleased with us, and no longer make mention of us in
heaven. That is what the Fathers taught that the
saiuts were ever doing, — praying to God for us, and
to the Virgin and Jesus. It is not possible, you see,
that they could have been praying for us, and yet
such things have happened, as happened in Temecula.
I do not know how it is my people have displeased
them."

" I think Father Salvierderra would say that it is
a sin to be afraid of the saints, Alessandro," replied
liamona, earnestly. " He has often told me that it

RAMONA. 323

was a sin to be unhappy ; and that withheld me
many times from being wretched because the Seiiora
would not love me. And, Alessandro," she went on,
growing more and more fervent in tone, " even if noth
ing but misfortune comes to people, that does not
prove that the saints do not love them ; for when the
saints were on earth themselves, look what they suf
fered : martyrs they were, almost all of them. Look at
what holy Saint Catharine endured, and the blessed
Saint Agnes. It is not by what happens to us here
in this world that we can tell if the saints love us, or
if we will see the Blessed Virgin."

" How can we tell, then ? " he asked.

" By what we feel in our hearts, Alessandro," she
replied; "just as I knew all the time, when you did
not come, — I knew that you loved me. I knew that
in my heart ; and I shall always know it, no matter
what happens. If you are dead, I shall know that
you love me. And you, — you will know that I love
you, the same."

" Yes," said Alessandro, reflectively, " that is true.
But, Majella, it is not possible to have the same
thoughts about a saint as about a person that one has
seen, and heard the voice, and touched the hand."

" No, not quite," said Eamoua ; " not quite, about
a saint ; but one can for the Blessed Virgin, Alessan
dro ! I am sure of that. Her statue, in my room at
the Senora's, has been always my mother. Ever
since I was little I have told her all I did. It was
she helped me to plan what I should bring away
with us. She reminded me of many things I had
forgotten, except for her."

" Did you hear her speak ? " said Alessandro, awe-
stricken.

" Not exactly in words ; but just the same as in
words," replied Ramona, confidently. " You see when
you sleep in the room with her, it is very different

324 RAMON A.

from what it is if you only see her in a chapel. Oh,
1 could never be very unhappy with her in my
room ! "

" I would almost go and steal it for you, Majella,"
cried Alessandro, with sacrilegious warmth.

" Holy Virgin ! " cried Itamona, " never speak such
a word. You would be struck dead if you laid your
hand on her ! I fear even the thought was a sin."

" There was a small figure of her in the wall of
our house," said Alessandro. " It wras from San Luis
Eey. I do not know what became of it, — if it were
left behind, or if they took it with my father's things
to Pachanga. I did not see it there. When I go
again, I will look."

" Again ! " cried Eamona. " What say you ? You
go again to Pachanga ? You will not leave me,
Alessandro ? "

At the bare mention of Alessandro's leaving her,
Ramona's courage always vanished. In a moment, in
the twinkling of an eye, she was transformed from
the dauntless, confident, sunny woman, who bore him
up as it were on wings of hope and faith, to a timid,
shrinking, despondent child, crying out in alarm, and
clinging to the hand.

" After a time, dear Majella, when you are wonted
to the place, I must go, to fetch the wagon and the
few things that were ours. There is the raw-hide
bed which was Father Peyri's, and he gave to my
father. Majella will like to Lie on that. My father
believed it had great virtue."

" Like that you made for Felipe ? " she asked.

" Yes ; but it is not so large. In those days the
cattle were not so large as they are now : this is not
so broad as Senor Felipe's. There are chairs, too, from
the Mission, three of them, one almost as fine as those
on your veranda at home. They were given to my
father. And music-books, — beautiful parchment

RAMONA. 325

books ! Oh, I hope those are not lost, Majella ! If
Jose had lived, he would have looked after it all.
But in the confusion, all the things belonging to the
village were thrown into wagons together, and no
one knew where anything was. But all the people
knew my father's chairs and the books of the music.
If the Americans did not steal them, everything will
be safe. My people do not steal. There was never
but one thief in our village, and my father had him
so whipped, he ran away and never came back. I
heard he was living in San Jacinto, and was a thief
yet, spite of all that whipping he had. I think if it
is in the blood to be a thief, not even whipping will
take it out, Majella."

" Like the Americans," she said, half laughing, but
with tears in the voice. " Whipping would not cure
them."

It wanted yet more than an hour of dawn when
they reached the crest of the hill from which they
looked down on the San Pasquale valley. Two such
crests and valleys they had passed ; this was the
broadest of the three valleys, and the hills walling
it were softer and rounder of contour than any they
had yet seen. To the east and northeast lay ranges
of high mountains, their tops lost in the clouds. The
whole sky was overcast and gray.

" If it were spring, this would mean rain," said
Alessandro ; " but it cannot rain, I think, now."

" No ! " laughed Ramona, " not till we get our
house done. Will it be of adobe, Alessandro ? "

" Dearest Majella, not yet ! At first it must be of
the tule. They are very comfortable while it is warm,
and before winter I will build one of adobe."

" Two houses ! Wasteful Alessandro ! If the tule
house is good, I shall not let you, Alessandro, build
another."

Eamona's mirthful moments bewildered Alessandro.

326 RAMONA.

To his slower temperament and saddened nature they
seemed preternatural ; as if she were all of a sudden
changed into a bird, or some gay creature outside the
pale of human life, — outside and above it.

" You speak as the birds sing, my Majella," he said
slowly. " It was well to name you Majel ; only the
wood-dove has not joy in her voice, as you have. She
says only that she loves and waits."

" I say that, too, Alessandro ! " replied Eamona,
reaching out both her arms towards him.

The horses were walking slowly, and very close
side by side. Baba and Benito were now such friends
they liked to pace closely side by side ; and Baba and
Benito were by no means without instinctive recogni
tions of the sympathy between their riders. Already
Benito knew Eamona's voice, and answered it with
pleasure ; and Baba had long ago learned to stop when
his mistress laid her hand on Alessandro's shoulder.
He stopped now, and it was long minutes before he
had the signal to go on again.

" Majella ! Majella ! " cried Alessandro, as, grasp
ing both her hands in his, he held them to his cheeks,
to his neck, to his mouth, " if the saints would ask
Alessandro to be a martyr for Majella's sake, like
those she was telling of, then she would know if
Alessandro loved her ! But what can Alessandro do
now ? What, oh, what ? Majella gives all ; Ales
sandro gives nothing ! " and he bowed his forehead
on her hands, before he put them back gently on
Baba's neck.

Tears filled Kamona's eyes. How should she win
this saddened man, this distrusting lover, to the joy
which was his desert ? " Alessandro can do one
thing," she said, insensibly falling into his mode of
speaking, — " one thing for his Majella : never, never,
never say that he has nothing to give her. When he
says that, he makes Majella a liar ; for she has said

RAMONA. 327

that he is all the world to her, — he himself all the
world which she desires. Is Majella a liar ? "

But it was even now with an ecstasy only half
joy, the other half anguish, that Alessandro replied :
"Majella cannot lie. Majella is like the saints.
Alessandro is hers."

When they rode down into the valley, the whole
village was astir. The vintage-time had nearly passed ;
everywhere were to be seen large, flat baskets of
grapes drying in the sun. Old women and children
were turning these, or pounding acorns in the deep
stone bowls ; others were beating the yucca-stalks,
and putting them to soak in water; the oldest women
were sitting on the ground, weaving baskets. There
were not many men in the village now; two large
bands were away at work, — one at the autumn sheep-
shearing, and one working on a large irrigating ditch
at San Bernardino.

In different directions from the village slow-mov
ing herds of goats or of cattle could be seen, being
driven to pasture on the hills ; some men were
ploughing ; several groups were at work building
houses of bundles of the tule reeds.

" These are some of the Temecula people," said
Alessandro; "they are building themselves new houses
here. See those piles of bundles darker-colored than
the rest. Those are their old roofs they brought from
Temecula. There, there comes Ysidro ! " he cried
joyfully, as a man, well-mounted, who had been
riding from point to point in the village, came
galloping towards them. As soon as Ysidro recog
nized Alessandro, he flung himself from his horse.
Alessandro did the same, and both running swiftly
towards each other till they met, they embraced
silently. Ramona, riding up, held out her hand,
saying, as she did so, " Ysidro ? "

Pleased, yet surprised, at this confident and assured

828 RAMONA.

greeting, Ysidro saluted her, and turning to Alessan
dro, said in tbeir own tongue, " Who is this woman
whom you bring, that has heard my name ? "

" My wife ! " answered Alessandro, in the same
tongue. " We were married last night by Father
Gaspara. She comes from the house of the Senora
Moreno. We will live in San Pasquale, if you have
land for me, as you have said."

Whatever astonishment Ysidro felt, he showed
none. Only a grave and courteous welcome was in his
face and in his words as he said, " It is well. There
is room. You are welcome." But when he heard the
soft Spanish syllables in which Eamona spoke to
Alessandro, and Alessandro, translating her words
to him, said, " Majel speaks only in the Spanish
tongue, but she will learn ours," a look of disquiet
passed over his countenance. His heart feared for
Alessandro, and he said, " Is she, then, not Indian ?
Whence got she the name of Majel ? "

A look of swift intelligence from Alessandro reas
sured him. " Indian on the mother's side ! " said
Alessandro, " and she belongs in heart to our people.
She is alone, save for me. She is one blessed of
the Virgin, Ysidro. She will help us. The name
Majel I have given her, for she is like the wood-
dove ; and she is glad to lay her old name down for
ever, to bear this new name in our tono-ue."

O

And this was Eamona's introduction to the Indian
village, — this and her smile ; perhaps the smile did
most. Even the little children were not afraid of
her. The women, though shy, in the beginning, at
sight of her noble bearing, and her clothes of a kind
and quality they associated only with superiors, soon
felt her friendliness, and, what was more, saw by her
every word, tone, look, that she was Alessandro's. If
Alessandro's, theirs. She was one of them. Eamona
would have been profoundly impressed and touched,

RAMONA. 329

could she have heard them speaking among them
selves about her ; wondering how it had come about
that she, so beautiful, and nurtured in the Moreno
house, of which they all knew, should be Alessandro's
loving wife. It must be, they thought in their sim
plicity, that the saints had sent it as an omen of good
to the Indian people. Toward night they came,
bringing in a hand-barrow the most aged woman in
the village to look at her. She wished to 'see the
beautiful stranger before the sun went down, they
said, because she was now so old she believed each
night that before morning her time would come to
die. They also wished to hear the old woman's ver
dict on her. When Alessaudro saw them coming, he
understood, and made haste to explain it to Eamona.
While he was yet speaking, the procession arrived,
and the aged woman in her strange litter was placed
silently on the ground in front of Eamona, who was
sitting under Ysidro's great fig-tree. Those who had
borne her withdrew, and seated themselves a few
paces off. Alessandro spoke first. In a few words
he told the old woman of Eamona's birth, of their
marriage, and of her new name of adoption ; then
he said, " Take her hand, dear Majella, if you feel no
fear."

There was something scarcely human in the shriv
elled arm and hand outstretched in greeting; but
Eamona took it in hers with tender reverence : " Say
to her for me, Alessandro," she said, " that I bow
down to her great age with reverence, and that I hope,
if it is the will of God that I live on the earth so long
as she has, I may be worthy of such reverence as
these people all feel for her."

Alessandro turned a grateful look on Eamona as
he translated this speech, so in unison with Indian
modes of thought and feeling. A murmur of pleasure
rose from the group of women sitting by. The aged

330 RAMONA.

woman made no reply ; her eyes still studied Ramo-
na's face, and she still held her hand.

" Tell her," continued Ramona, " that I ask if there
is anything I can do for her. Say I will be her
daughter if she will let me."

"It must be the Virgin herself that is teaching
Majella what to say," thought Alessandro, as he
repeated this in the San Luiseno tongue.

Again the women murmured pleasure, but the old
woman spoke not. " And say that you will be her
son," added Ramona.

Alessandro said it. It was perhaps for this that
the old woman had waited. Lifting up her arm, like
a sibyl, she said : " It is well ; I am your mother. The
winds of the valley shall love you, and the grass shall
dance when you come. The daughter looks on her
mother's face each day. I will go ; " and making a
sign to her bearers, she was lifted, and carried to her
house.

The scene affected Ramona deeply. The simplest
acts of these people seemed to her marvellously pro
found in their meanings. She was not herself suffi
ciently educated or versed in life to know why she
was so moved, — to know that such utterances, such
symbolisms as these, among primitive peoples, are
thus impressive because they are truly and grandly
dramatic ; but she was none the less stirred by
them, because she could not analyze or explain
them.

" I will go and see her every day," she said ; " she
shall be like my mother, whom I never saw."

"We must both go each day," said Alessandro.
" What we have said is a solemn promise among my
people ; it would not be possible to break it."

Ysidro's home was in the centre of the village,
on a slightly rising ground ; it was a picturesque
group of four small houses, three of tule reeds and

RAMON A. 331

one of adobe, — the latter a comfortable little house
of two rooms, with a floor and a shingled roof, both
luxuries in San Pasquale. The great lig-tree, whose
luxuriance and size were noted far and near through
out the country, stood half-way down the slope ; but
its boughs shaded all three of the tule houses. On
one of its lower branches was fastened a dove-cote,
ingeniously made of willow wands, plastered with
adobe, and containing so many rooms that the whole
tree seemed sometimes a-flutter with doves and dove-
lings. Here and there, between the houses, were huge
basket, larger than barrels, woven of twigs, as the
eagle weaves its nest, only tighter and thicker.
These were the outdoor granaries ; in these were kept
acorns, barley, wheat, and corn. Eamona thought
them, as well she might, the prettiest things she ever
saw.

" Are they hard to make ? " she asked. " Can you
make them, Alessandro ? I shall want many."

" All you want, my Majella," replied Alessandro.
" We will go together to get the twigs ; I can, I dare
say, buy some in the village. It is only two days to
make a large one."

" No. Do not buy one," she exclaimed. " I wish
everything in our house to be made by ourselves."
In which, again, Ramona was unconsciously striking
one of the keynotes of pleasure in the primitive har
monies of existence.

The tule house which stood nearest to the dove
cote was, by a lucky chance, now empty, Ysidro's
brother Ramon, who had occupied it, having gone
with his wife and baby to San Bernardino, for the
winter, to work ; this house Ysidro was but too
happy to give to Alessandro till his own should be
done. It was a tiny place, though it was really two
houses joined together by a roofed passage-way. In this
passage-way the tidy Juana, Ramon's wife, kept her

332 RAMONA.

few pots and pans, and a small stove. It looked to
Eamona like a baby-house. Timidly Alessandro said :
" Can Majella live in this small place for a time ? It
will not be very long; there are adobes already made."

His countenance cleared as Eamona replied glee
fully, "I think it will be very comfortable, and I
' shall feel as if we were all doves together in the dove
cote ! "

"Majel !" exclaimed Alessandro; and that was all
he said.

Only a few rods off stood the little chapel ; in
front of it swung on a cross-bar from two slanting
posts an old bronze bell which had once belonged
to the San Diego Mission. When Eamona read the
date, " 1790," on its side, arid heard that it was from
the San Diego Mission church it had come, she
felt a sense of protection in its presence.

" Think, Alessaudro," she said ; "this bell, no doubt,
has rung many times for the mass for the holy
Father Junipero himself. It is a blessing to the
village. I want to live where I can see it all the
time. It will be like a saint's statue in the house."

With every allusion that Eamona made to the
saints' statues, Alessandro's desire to procure one for
her deepened. He said nothing ; but he revolved it
in his mind continually. He had once gone with his
shearers to San Fernando, and there he had seen in a
room of the old Mission buildings a dozen statues
of saints huddled in dusty confusion. The San Fer
nando church was in crumbled ruins, and such of
the church properties as were left there were in the
keeping of a Mexican not over-careful, and not in
the least devout. It would not trouble him to part
with a saint or two, Alessandro thought, and no
irreverence to the saint either ; on the contrary, the
greatest of reverence, since the statue was to be taken
from a place where no one cared for it, and brought

RAMONA. 333

into one where it would be tenderly cherished, and
worshipped every day. If only San Fernando were
not so far away, and the wooden saints so heavy !
However, it should come about yet. Majella should
have a saint ; nor distance nor difficulty should keep
Alessandro from procuring for his Majel the few
things that lay within his power. But he held his
peace about it. It would be a sweeter gift, if she
did not know it beforehand. He pleased himself as
subtly and secretly as if he had come of civilized
generations, thinking how her eyes would dilate, if
she waked up some morning and sawr the saint by her
bedside ; and how sure she would be to think, at first,
it was a miracle, — his dear, devout Majella, who, with
all her superior knowledge, was yet more credulous
than he. All her education had not taught her to
think, as he, untaught, had learned, in his solitude
with nature.

Before Alessandro had been two days in San Pas-
quale, he had heard of a piece of good-fortune which
almost passed his belief, and which startled him for
once out of his usual impassive demeanor.

" You know I have a herd of cattle of your father's,
and near a hundred sheep ? " said Ysidro.

" Holy Virgin ! " cried Alessandro, " you do not
mean that ! How is that ? They told me all our
stock was taken by the Americans."

" Yes, so it was, all that was in Temecula," replied
Ysidro ; " but in the spring your father sent down
to know if I would take a herd for him up into the
mountains, with ours, as he feared the Temecula
pasture would fall short, and the people there, who
could not leave, must have their cattle near home ;
so he sent a herd over, — I think, near fifty head ; and
many of the cows have calved ; and he sent, also,
a little flock of sheep, — a hundred, Ramon said ;
he herded them with ours all summer, and he left a

334 RAMONA.

man up there with them. They will be down next
week. It is time they were sheared."

Before he had finished speaking, Alessandro had
vanished, bounding like a deer. Ysidro stared after
him ; but seeing him enter the doorway of the little
tule hut, he understood, and a sad smile passed
over his face. He was not yet persuaded that this
marriage of Alessaudro's would turn out a bless
ing. "What are a handful of sheep to her!" he
thought.

Breathless, panting, Alessandro burst into Eamona's
presence. " Majella ! my Majella ! There are cattle
— and sheep," he cried. " The saints be praised !
We are not like the beggars, as I said."

"I told you that God would give us food, dear
Alessaudro," replied Kamona, gently.

" You do not wonder ! You do not ask ! " he
cried, astonished at her calm. " Does Majella think
that a sheep or a steer can come down from the
skies ? "

" Nay, not as our eyes would see," she answered ;
" but the holy ones who live in the skies can do any
thing they like on the earth. Whence came these
cattle, and how are they ours ? "

When he told her, her face grew solemn. "Do
you remember that night in the willows," she said,
" when I was like one dying, because you would not
bring me with you ? You had no faith that there
would be food. And I told you then that the saints
never forsook those who loved them, and that God
would give food. And even at that moment, when
you did not know it, there were your cattle and your
sheep feeding in the mountains, in the keeping of
God ! Will my Alessandro believe after this ? " and
she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him.

" It is true," said Alessandro. " I will believe, after
this, that the saints love my Majella."

RAMONA. 335

But as he walked at a slower pace back to Ysidro,
he said to himself: " Majella did not see Temecula.
What would she have said about the saints, if she
had seen that, and seen the people dying for want of
food ? It is only for her that the saints pray. They
are displeased with my people."

XX.

ONE year, and a half of another year, had passed.
Sheep-shearings and vintages had been in San
Pasquale ; and Alessandro's new house, having been
beaten on by the heavy spring rains, looked no
longer new. It stood on the south side of the
valley, — too far, Eamona felt, from the blessed bell;
but there had not been land enough for wheat-fields
any nearer, and she could see the chapel, and the
posts, and, on a clear day, the bell itself. The house
was small. " Small to hold so much joy," she said,
when Alessandro first led her to it, and said, depre-
catingly, " It is small, Majella, — too small ; " and he
recollected bitterly, as he spoke, the size of Eamona's
own room at the Senora's house. " Too small," he
repeated.

" Very small to hold so much joy, my Alessandro,"
she laughed ; " but quite large enough to hold two
persons."

It looked like a palace to the San Pasquale people,
after Eamona had arranged their little possessions in
it; and she herself felt rich as she looked around her
two small rooms. The old San Luis Eey chairs and
the raw-hide bedstead were there, and, most precious
of all, the statuette of the Madonna. For this Ales
sandro had built a niche in the wall, between the
:head of the bed and the one window. The niche
was deep enough to hold small pots in front of the
statuette ; and Eamona kept constantly growing there
wild-cucumber plants, which wreathed and re- wreathed
the niche till it looked like a bower. Below it hung
her gold rosary and the ivory Christ; and many a

RAMONA. 337

woman of the village, when she came to see Ramona,
asked permission to go into the bedroom and say her
prayers there ; so that it finally came to be a sort of
shrine for the whole village.

A broad veranda, as broad as the Senora's, ran
across the front of the little house. This was the
only thing for which Ramona had asked. She could
not quite fancy life without a veranda, and linnets in
the thatch. But the linnets had not yet come. In
vain Ramona strewed food for them, and laid little
trains of crumbs to lure them inside the posts ; they
would not build nests inside. It was not their way
in San Pasquale. They lived in the canons, but this
part of the valley was too bare of trees for them.
" In a year or two more, when we have orchards, they
will come," Alessandro said.

With the money from that first sheep-shearing,
and from the sale of part of his cattle, Alessandro
had bought all he needed in the way of farming
implements, — a good wagon and harnesses, and a
plough. Baba and Benito, at first restive and indig
nant, soon made up their minds to work. Ramona
had talked to Baba about it as she would have talked
to a brother. In fact, except for Ramona's help, it
would have been a question whether even Alessandro
could have made Baba work in harness. " Good
Baba ! " Ramona said, as she slipped piece after piece
of the harness over his neck, — " Good Baba, you must
help us ; we have so much work to do, and you are
so strong! Good Baba, do you love me?" and with
one hand in his mane, and her cheek, every few steps,
laid close to his, she led Baba up and down the first
' furrows he ploughed.

" My Seiiorita ! " thought Alessandro to himself,
half in pain, half in pride, as, running behind with
the unevenly jerked plough, he watched her laughing
face and blowing hair, — " my Seiiorita!"

338 RAMONA.

But Ramona would not run with her hand in
Baba's mane this winter. There was a new work for
her, indoors. In a rustic cradle, which Alessandro
had made, under her directions, of the woven twigs,
like the great outdoor acorn-granaries, only closer ^
woven, and of an oval shape, and lifted from the floor .
by four uprights of red manzanita stems, — in this
cradle, on soft white wool fleeces, covered with white
homespun blankets, lay Eamoua's baby, six months
old, lusty, strong, and beautiful, as only children born
of great love and under healthful conditions can be.
This child was a girl, to Alessandro's delight ; to
Eamona's regret, — so far as a loving mother can
feel regret connected with her first-born. Eamona
had wished for an Alessandro ; but the disappointed
wish faded out of her thoughts, hour by hour, as she
gazed into her baby -girl's blue eyes, — eyes so blue
that their color was the first thing noticed by each
person who looked at her.

" Eyes of the sky," exclaimed Ysidro, when he first
saw her.

" Like the mother's," said Alessandro ; on which
Ysidro turned an astonished look upon Ramona,
and saw for the first time that her eyes, too, were
blue.

" Wonderful ! " he said. " It is so. I never saw it;"
and he wondered in his heart what father it had been,
who had given eyes like those to one born of an
Indian mother.

" Eyes of the sky," became at once the baby's
name in the village; and Alessandro and Ramona,
before they knew it, had fallen into the way of so
calling her. But when it came to the christening,
they demurred. The news was brought to the village,
one Saturday, that Father Gaspara would hold ser
vices in the valley the next day, and that he wished
all the new-born babes to be brought for christening.

RAM ON A. 339

into the night, Alessandro and Ramona sat by
their sleeping baby and discussed what should be her
name, Ramona wondered that Alessaudro did not
wish to name her Majella.

" No ! Never but one Majella," he said, in a tone
which gave Ramona a sense of vague fear, it was so
solemn.

They discussed " Ramona," " Isabella." Alessan
dro suggested Carmena. This had been his mother's
name.

At the mention of it Ramona shuddered, recollect
ing the scene in the Temecula graveyard. " Oh, no,
no! Not that!" she cried. " It is ill-fated;" and
Alessandro blamed himself for having forgotten her
only association with the name.

At last Alessandro said : " The people have named
her, I think, Majella. Whatever name we give her
in the chapel, she will never be called anything but
' Eyes of the Sky,' in the village."

" Let that name be her true one, then," said Ra
mona. And so it was settled ; and when Father
Gaspara took the little one in his arms, and made the
sign of the cross on her brow, he pronounced with
some difficulty the syllables of the Indian name,
which meant " Blue Eyes," or " Eyes of the Sky."

Heretofore, when Father Gaspara had come to San
Pasquale to say mass, he had slept at Lomax's, the
store and post-office, six miles away, in the Bernardo
valley. But Ysidro, with great pride, had this time
ridden to meet him, to say that his cousin Alessan
dro, who had come to live in the valley, and had a
good new adobe house, begged that the Father would
do him the honor to stay with him.

"And indeed, Father," added Ysidro, "you will
be far better lodged and fed than in the house of
Lomax. My cousin's wife knows well how all should
be done."

340 RAMONA.

" Alessandro ! Alessandro ! " said the Father, mus
ingly. " Has he been long married ? "

"No, Father/' answered Ysidro. "But little more
than two years. They were married by you, on their
way from Temecula here."

" Ay, ay ! I remember," said Father Gaspara. " I
will come ; " and it was with no small interest that
he looked forward to meeting again the couple that
had so strongly impressed him.

Eamona was full of eager interest in her preparations
for entertaining the priest. This was like the olden
time ; and as she busied herself with her cooking and
other arrangements, the thought of Father Salvier-
derra was much in her mind. She could, perhaps,
hear news of him from Father Gaspara. It was she
who had suggested the idea to Alessandro ; and when
he said, " But where will you sleep yourself, with the
child, Majella, if we give our room to the Father ? I
can lie on the floor outside ; but you ? " — "I will go
to Ysidro's, and sleep with Juana," she replied. " For
two nights, it is no matter ; and it is such shame to
have the Father sleep in the house of an American,
when we have a good bed like this ! "

Seldom in his life had Alessandro experienced
such a sense of gratification as he did when he led
Father Gaspara into his and Eamona's bedroom.
The clean whitewashed walls, the bed neatly made,
with broad lace on sheets and pillows, hung with cur
tains and a canopy of bright red calico, the old carved
chairs, the Madonna shrine in its bower of green
leaves, the shelves on the walls, the white-curtained
window, — all made up a picture such as Father
Gaspara had never before seen in his pilgrimages
atnoug the Indian villages. He could not restrain
an ejaculation of surprise. Then his eye falling on
the golden rosary, he exclaimed, " Where got you
that ? "

RAMON A. 341

" It is my wife's," replied Alessandro, proudly. " It
was given to her by Father Salvierderra."

" Ah ! " said the Father. " He died the other day."
" Dead ! Father Salvierderra dead ! " cried Ales
sandro. " That will be a terrible blow. Oh, Father,
I implore you not to speak of it in her presence. She
must not know it till after the christening. It will
make her heart heavy, so that she will have no

joy."

Father Gaspara was still scrutinizing the rosary
and crucifix. " To be sure, to be sure," he said ab
sently ; " I will say nothing of it ; but this is a work
of art, this crucifix ; do you know what you have
here ? And this, — is this not an altar-cloth ? " he
added, lifting up the beautiful wrought altar-cloth,
which Eamona, in honor of his coming, had pinned on
the wall below the Madonna's shrine.

" Yes, Father, it was made for that. My wife made
it. It was to be a present to Father Salvierderra ;
but she has not seen him, to give it to him. It will
take the light out of the sun for her, when first she
hears that he is dead."

Father Gaspara was about to ask another question,
when Eamona appeared in the doorway, flushed with
running. She had carried the baby over to Juana's
and left her there, that she might be free to serve the
Father's supper.

" I pray you tell her not," said Alessandro, under
his breath ; but it was too late. Seeing the Father
with her rosary in his hand, Eamona exclaimed : —

" That, Father, is my most sacred possession. It
once belonged to Father Peyri, of San Luis Key, and
he gave it to Father Salvierderra, who gave it to me.
Know you Father Salvierderra ? I was hoping to
hear news of him through you."

" Yes, I knew him, — not very well ; it is long since
I saw him," stammered Father Gaspara. His hesi-

342 RAMONA.

tancy alone would not have told Ramona the truth ;
she would have set that down to the secular priest's
indifference, or hostility, to the Franciscan order ; but
looking at Alessandro, she saw terror and sadness on
his face. No shadow there ever escaped her eye.
" What is it, Alessandro ? " she exclaimed. " Is it
something about Father Salvierderra ? Is he ill ? "

Alessandro shook his head. He did not know
what to say. Looking from one to the other, seeing
the confused pain in both their faces, Ramona, lay
ing both her hands on her breast, in the expressive
gesture she had learned from the Indian women,
cried out in a piteous tone : " You will not tell me !
You do not speak ! Then he is dead ! " and she sank
on her knees.

"Yes, my daughter, he is dead," said Father Gas-
para, more tenderly than that brusque and warlike
priest often spoke. " He died a month ago, at Santa
Barbara. I am grieved to have brought you tidings
to give you such sorrow. But you must not mourn
for him. He was very feeble, and he longed to die,
I heard. He could no longer work, and he did not
wish to live."

Ramona had buried her face in her hands. The
Father's words were only a confused sound in her
ears. She had heard nothing after the words, " a
month ago." She remained silent and motionless for
some moments ; then rising, without speaking a word,
or looking at either of the men, she crossed the room
and knelt down before the Madonna. By a common
impulse, both Alessandro and Father Gaspara silently
left the room. As they stood together outside the
door> the Father said, " I would go back to Lomax's
if it were not so late. I like not to be here when your
wife is in such grief."

" That would but be another grief, Father," said
Alessandro. " She has been full of happiness in

RAMON A. 343

making ready for you. She is very strong of soul.
It is she who makes me strong often, and not I who
give strength to her."

" My faith, but the man is right," thought Father
Gaspara, a half-hour later, when, with a calm face,
Piarnona summoned them to supper. He did not
' know, as Alessandro did, how that face had changed in
the half-hour. It wore a look Alessandro had never
seen upon it. Almost he dreaded to speak to her.

When he walked by her side, later in the evening,
as she went across the valley to Fernando's house,
he ventured to mention Father Salvierderra's name.
Earaona laid her hand on his lips. " I cannot talk
about him yet, dear," she said. " I never believed that
he would die without giving us his blessing. Do not
speak of him till to-morrow is over."

Eamona's saddened face smote on all the women's
hearts as they met her the next morning. One by
one they gazed, astonished, then turned away, and
spoke softly among themselves. They all loved her,
and half revered her too, for her great kindness, and
readiness to teach and to help them. She had been
like a sort of missionary in the valley ever since she
came, and no one had ever seen her face without a
smile. Now she smiled not. Yet there was the
beautiful baby in its white dress, ready to be chris
tened ; and the sun shone, and the bell had been ring
ing for half an hour, and from every corner of the
valley the people were gathering, and Father Gaspara,
in his gold and green cassock, was praying before the
altar ; it was a joyous day in San Pasquale. Why
did Alessandro and Eamona kneel apart in a corner,
with such heart-stricken countenances, not even
looking glad when their baby laughed, and reached
up her hands ? Gradually it was whispered about
what had happened. Some one had got it from An
tonio, of Temecula, Alessandro's friend. Then all tho

344 RAMONA.

women's faces grew sad too. They all had heard of
Father Salvierderra, and many of them had prayed to
the ivory Christ in Ramona's room, and knew that
he had given it to her.

As Kamoua passed out of the chapel, some of them
came up to her, and taking her hand in theirs, laid it
on their hearts, speaking no word. The gesture was
more than any speech could have been.

When Father Gaspara was taking leave, Ramona
said, with quivering lips, "Father, if there is any
thing you know of Father Salvierderra's last hours,
I would be grateful to you for telling me."

" I heard very little," replied the Father, " except
that he had been feeble for some weeks; yet he
would persist in spending most of the night kneeling
on the stone floor in the church, praying."

" Yes," interrupted Eamona ; " that he always
did."

" And the last morning," continued the Father, " the
Brothers found him there, still kneeling on the stone
floor, but quite powerless to move; and they lifted
him, and carried him to his room, and there they
found, to their horror, that he had had no bed ; he had
lain on the stones ; and then they took him to the
Superior's own room, and laid him in the bed, and he
did not speak any more, and at noon he died."

" Thank you very much, Father," said Eamona,
without lifting her eyes from the ground ; and in the
same low, tremulous tone, " I am glad that I know
that he is dead."

" Strange what a hold those Franciscans got on
these Indians ! " mused Father Gaspara, as he rode
down the valley. " There 's none of them would look
like that if I were dead, I warrant me ! There,"
he exclaimed, " I meant to have asked Alessandro
who this wife of his is ! I don't believe she is a
Ternecula Indian. Next time I come, I will find out.

RAMONA. 345

She 's had some schooling somewhere, that 'a plain.
She's quite superior to the general run of them.
Next time I come, I will find out ahout her."

" Next time ! " In what calendar are kept the
records of those next times which never come ? Long
before Father Gaspara visited San Pasquale again,
Alessaiidro and Eamona were far away, and strangers
were living in their home.

It seemed to Ramona in after years, as she looked
back over this life, that the news of Father Salvier-
derra's death was the first note of the knell of their
happiness. It was but a few days afterward, when
Alessaiidro came in one noon with an expression on
his face that terrified her ; seating himself in a chair,
he buried his face in his hands, and would neither
look up nor speak ; not until Ramona was near crying
from his silence, did he utter a word. Then, looking
at her with a ghastly face, he said in a hollow voice,
" It has begun !" and buried his face again. Finally
Kamona's tears wrung from him the following story :

Ysidro, it seemed, had the previous year rented
a canon, at the head of the valley, to one Doctor
Morong. It was simply as bee-pasture that the
Doctor wanted it, he said. He put his hives there,
and built a sort of hut for the man whom he sent
up to look after the honey. Ysidro did not need
the land, and thought it a good chance to make a
little money. He had taken every precaution to
make the transaction a safe one ; had gone to San
Diego, and got Fatber Gaspara to act as interpreter for
him, in the interview with Morong ; it had been a
written agreement, and the rent agreed upon had been
punctually paid. Now, the time of the lease having
expired, Ysidro had been to San Diego to ask the
Doctor if he wished to renew it for another year ; and
the Doctor had said that the land was his, and he was
coming out there to build a house, and live.

346 RAMONA.

Ysidro had gone to Father Gaspara for help, and
Father Gaspara had had an angry interview with
Doctor Morong ; but it had done no good. The Doctor
said the land did not belong to Ysidro at all, but to
the United States Government ; and that lie had paid
the money for it to the agents in Los Angeles, and
there would very soon come papers from Washington,
to show that it was his. Father Gaspara had gone
with Ysidro to a lawyer in San Diego, and had
shown to this lawyer Ysidro's paper, — the old one
from the Mexican Governor of California, establishing
the pueblo of San Pasquale, and saying how many
leagues of land the Indians were to have; but the
lawyer had only laughed at Father Gaspara for
believing that such a paper as that was good for
anything. He said that was all very well when the
country belonged to Mexico, but it was no good now ;
that the Americans owned it now; and everything
was done by the American law now, not by the
Mexican law any more.

" Then we do not own any land in San Pasquale at
all," said Ysidro. " Is that what it means ? "

And the lawyer had said, he did not know hew it
would be with the cultivated land, and the village where
the houses were, — he could not tell about that ; but
he thought it all belonged to the men at Washington.

Father Gaspara was in such rage, Ysidro said, that
he tore open his gown on his breast, and he smote
himself, and he said he wished he were a soldier, and
no priest, that he might fight this accursed United
States Government ; and the lawyer laughed at him,
and told him to look after souls, — that was his busi
ness, — and let the Indian beggars alone ! "Yes, that
was what he said, — ' the Indian beggars ! ' and so
they would be all beggars, presently."

Alessandro told this by gasps, as it were ; at long
intervals. His voice was choked ; his whole frame

RAMONA. 347

shook. He was nearly beside himself with rage and
despair.

" You see, it is as I said, Majella. There is no
place safe. We can do nothing ! We might better be
dead ! "

" It is a long way off, that canon Doctor Morong had,"
said liamona, piteously. " It would n't do any harm,
his living there, if no more came."

" Majella talks like a dove, and not like a woman,"
said Alessandro, fiercely. " Will there be one to come,
and not two ? It is the beginning. To-morrow may
come ten more, with papers to show that the land is
theirs. We can do nothing, any more than the wild
beasts. They are better than we."

From this day Alessandro was a changed man.
Hope had died in his bosom. In all the village coun
cils, — and they were many and long now, for the little
community had been plunged into great anxiety and
distress by this Doctor Morong's affair, — Alessandro
sat dumb and gloomy. To whatever was proposed,
he had but one reply: "It is of no use. We can
do nothing."

" Eat your dinners to-day, to-morrow we starve," he
said one night, bitterly, as the council broke up. When
Ysidro proposed to him that they should journey
to Los Angeles, where Father Gaspara had said the
headquarters of the Government officers were, and
where they could learn all about the new laws in
regard to land, Alessandro laughed at him. . " What
more is it, then, which you wish to know, my
brother, about the American laws ? " he said. " Is
it not enough that you know they have made a law
which will take the land from Indians ; from us who
have owned it longer than any can remember ; land
that our ancestors are buried in, — will take that land
and give it to themselves, and say it is theirs ? Is
it to hear this again said in your face, and to see

348 RAMONA.

the man laugh who says it, like the lawyer in San
Diego, that you will journey to Los Angeles ? I will
not go ! "

And Ysidro went alone. Father Gaspara gave him
a letter to the Los Angeles priest, who went with
him to the land-office, patiently interpreted for him
all he had to say, and as patiently interpreted all
that the officials had to say in reply. They did not
laugh, as Alessandro in his bitterness had said. They
were not inhuman, and they felt sincere sympathy for
this man, representative of two hundred hard- working,
industrious people, in danger of being turned out of
house and home. But they were very busy ; they
had to say curtly, and in few words, all there was to
be said : the San Pasquale district was certainly the
property of the United States Government, and the
lands were in market, to be filed on, and bought, ac
cording to the homestead laws. These officials had
neither authority nor option in the matter. They
were there simply to carry out instructions, and obey
orders.

Ysidro understood the substance of all this, though
the details were beyond his comprehension. But
he did not regret having taken the journey ; he had
now made his last effort for his people. The Los
Angeles priest had promised that he would himself
write a letter to Washington, to lay the case before
the head men there, and perhaps something would
be done- for their relief. It seemed incredible to
Ysidro, as, riding along day after day, on his sad home
ward journey, he reflected on the subject, — it seemed
i ncredible to him that the Government would permit
such a village as theirs to be destroyed. He reached
home just at sunset ; and looking down, as Alessandro
and Ramona had done on the morning of their arrival,
from the hill-crests at the west end of the valley, see
ing the broad belt of cultivated fields and orchards, the

RAMONA. 349

peaceful little hamlet of houses, he groaned. " If the
people who make these laws could only see this vil
lage, they would never turn us out, never ! They
can't know what is being done. I am sure they can't
know."

" What did I tell you ? " cried Alessandro, gallop
ing up on Benito, and reining him in so sharply
he reared and plunged. " What did I tell you ? I saw
by your face, many paces back, that you had come as
you went, or worse ! I have been watching for you
these two days. Another American has come in with
Morong in the canon ; they are making corrals ; they
will keep stock. You will see how long we have
any pasture-lands in that end of the valley. I drive
all my stock to San Diego next week. I will sell it
for what it will bring, — both the cattle and the sheep.
It is no use. You will see."

When Ysidro began to recount his interview
with the land-office authorities, Alessandro broke
in fiercely : " I wish to hear no more of it. Their
names and their speech are like smoke in my eyes
and my nose. I think I shall go mad, Ysidro. Go
tell your story to the men who are waiting to hear
it, and who yet believe that an American may speak
truth ! "

Alessandro was as good as his word. The very
next week he drove all his cattle and sheep to San
Diego, and sold them at great loss. " It is bettei
than nothing," he said. " They will not now be
sold by the sheriff, like my father's in Temecula."
The money he got, he took to Father Gaspara.
" Father," he said huskily, " I have sold all my
stock. I would not wait for the Americans to sell
it for me, and take the money. I have not got
much, but it is better than nothing. It will make
that we do not starve for one year. Will you keep
it for me, Father ? I dare not have it in San

350 RAMON A.

Pasquale. San Pasquale will be like Temecula, — it
may be to-morrow."

To the Father's suggestion that he should put the
money in a bank in San Diego, Alessaudro cried •.
" Sooner would I throw it in the sea yonder ! 1
trust no man, henceforth ; only the Church I will
trust. Keep it tor me, Father, I pray you ; " and the
Father could not refuse his imploring tone.

" What are your plans now ? " he asked.

" Plans ! " repeated Alessandro, — " plans, Father !
Why should I make plans ? I will stay in my house
so long as the Americans will let me. You saw our
little house, Father ! " His voice broke as he said
this. " I have large wheat-fields ; if I can get one
more crop off them, it will be something ; but my
land is of the richest in the valley, and as soon
as the Americans see it, they will want it. Fare
well, Father. I thank you for keeping my money,
and for all you said to the thief Morong. Ysidro
told me. Farewell." And he was gone, and out of
sight on the swift galloping Benito, before Father
Gaspara bethought himself.

" And I remembered not to ask who his wife was.
I will look back at the record," said the Father.
Taking down the old volume, he ran his eye back
over the year. Marriages were not so many in
Father Gaspara's parish, that the list took long to
read. The entry of Alessandro's marriage was blotted.
The Father had been in haste that night. " Ales
sandro Assis. Majella Fa — No more could be
read. The name meant nothing to Father Gaspara.
"Clearly an Indian name," he said to himself; "yet
she seemed superior in every way. I wonder where
she got it."

The winter wore along quietly in San Pasquale.
The delicious soft rains set in early, promising a
good grain year. It seemed a pity not to get in as

RAMONA. 351

much wheat as possible; and all the San Pasquale
people went early to ploughing new fields, — all but
Alessandro.

" If I reap all I have, I will thank the saints," he
said. " I will plough no more land for the robbers."
But after his fields were all planted, and the benefi
cent rains still kept on, and the hills all along the
valley wall began to turn green earlier than ever
before was known, he said to Kamona one morning,
" I think I will make one more field of wheat.
There will be a great yield this year. Maybe we
will be left unmolested till the harvest is over."

" Oh, yes, and for many more harvests, dear Ales
sandro ! " said Kamona, cheerily. " You are always
looking on the black side."

" There is no other but the black side, Majella,"
he replied. " Strain my eyes as I may, on all sides
all is black. You will see. Never any more har
vests in San Pasquale for us, after this. If we get
this, we are lucky. I have seen the white men
riding up and down in the valley, and I found some
of their cursed bits of wood with figures on them set
up on my land the other day ; and I pulled them
up and burned them to ashes. But I will plough one
more field this week ; though, I know not why it is,
my thoughts go against it even now. But I will
do it ; and I will not come home till night, Majella,
for the field is too far to go and come twice. I shall
be the whole day ploughing." So saying, he stooped
and kissed the baby, and then kissing Kamona, went
out.

Eamona stood at the door and watched him as he
harnessed Benito and Baba to the plough. He did
not once look back at her ; his face seemed full of
thought, his hands acting as it were mechanically.
After he had gone a few rods from the house, he
stopped, stood still for some minutes meditating,

352 RAMONA.

then went on irresolutely, halted again, but nnall}r
went on, and disappeared from sight among the low
foot-hills to the east. Sighing deeply, Ramona turned
back to her work. But her heart was too disquieted.
She could not keep back the tears.

"How changed is Alessandro ! " she thought. "It
terrifies me to see him thus. I will tell the Blessed
Virgin about it ; " and kneeling before the shrine,
she prayed fervently and long. She rose comforted,
and drawing the baby's cradle out into the veranda,
seated herself at her embroidery. Her skill with her
needle had proved a not inconsiderable source of
income, her fine lace- work being always taken by San
Diego merchants, and at fairly good prices.

It seemed to her only a short time that she had
been sitting thus, when, glancing up at the sun, she
saw it was near noon ; at the same moment she saw
Alessandro approaching, with the horses. In dis
may, she thought, " There is no dinner ! He said he
would not come ! " and springing up, was about to
run to meet him, when she observed that he was not
alone. A short, thick-set man was walking by his
side; they were talking earnestly. It was a white
man. What did it bode ? Presently they stopped.
She saw Alessandro lift his hand and point to the
house, then to the tule sheds in the rear. He seemed
to be talking excitedly ; the white man also ; they
were both speaking at once. Ramona shivered with
fear. Motionless she stood, straining eye and ear ;
she could hear nothing, but the gestures told much.
Had it come, — the thing Alessandro had said would
.come? Were they to be driven out, — driven out
this very day, when the Virgin had only just now
seemed to promise her help and protection ?

The baby stirred, waked, began to cry. Catching
the child up to her breast, she stilled her by convul
sive caresses. Clasping her tight in her arms, she

EAMONA. 353

walked a few steps towards Alessandro, who, seeing
her, made an imperative gesture to her to return.
Sick at heart, she went back to the veranda and sat
down to wait.

In a few moments she saw the white man count
ing out money into Alessandro's hand ; then he turned
and walked away, Alessaudro still standing as if rooted
to the spot, gazing into the palm of his hand, Benito
and Baba slowly walking away from him unnoticed ;
at last he seemed to rouse himself as from a trance,
and picking up the horses' reins, came slowly toward
her. Again she started to meet him ; again he made
the same authoritative gesture to her to return ;
and again she seated herself, trembling in every nerve
of her body. Eamona was now sometimes afraid of
Alessandro. When these fierce glooms seized him,
she dreaded, she knew not what. He seemed no
more the Alessandro she had loved.

Deliberately, lingeringly, he unharnessed the horses
and put them in the corral. Then still more deliber
ately, lingeringly, he walked to the house ; walked,
without speaking, past Eamona, into the door. A
lurid spot on each cheek showed burning red through
the bronze of his skin. His eyes glittered. In
silence Ramona followed him, and saw him draw
from his pocket a handful of gold-pieces, fling them
on the table, and burst into a laugh more terrible
than any weeping, — a laugh which wrung from her
instantly, involuntarily, the cry, " Oh, my Alessandro !
my Alessandro ! What is it ? Are you mad ? "

" No, my sweet Majel," he exclaimed, turning to
her, and flinging his arms round her and the child
together, drawing them so close to his breast that the
embrace hurt, — " no, I am not mad ; but I think 1
shall soon be ! What is that gold ? The price of this
house, Majel, and of the fields, — of all that was ours
in San Pasquale ! To-morrow we will go out into

23

354 RAMONA.

the world again. I will see if I can find a place the
Americans do not want ! "

It did not take many words to tell the story
Alessandro had not been ploughing more than an
hour, when, hearing a strange sound, he looked up
and saw a man unloading lumber a few rods off.
Alessandro stopped midway in the furrow and
watched him. The man also watched Alessandro.
Presently he came toward him, and said roughly,
" Look here ! Be off, will you ? This is my land.
I'm going to build a house here."

Alessandro had replied, " This was my land yester
day. How comes it yours to-day ? "

Something in the wording of this answer, or some
thing in Alessandro's tone and bearing, smote the
man's conscience, or heart, or what stood to him in
the place of conscience and heart, and he said : " Come,
now, my good fellow, you look like a reasonable kind
of a fellow ; you just clear out, will you, and not
make me any trouble. You see the land 's mine. I 've
got all this land round here :" and he waved his arm,
describing a circle ; " three hundred and twenty
acres, me and my brother together, and we 're coming
in here to settle. We got our papers from Washing
ton last week. It 's all right, and you may just as
well go peaceably, as make a fuss about it. Don't
you see ? "

Yes, Alessandro saw. He had been seeing this
precise thing for months. Many times, in his dreams
and in his waking thoughts, he had lived over scenes
similar to this. An almost preternatural calm and
wisdom seemed to be given him now.

" Yes, I see, Senor," he said. " I am not surprised.
I knew it would come ; but I hoped it would not be
till after harvest. I will not give you any trouble,
Senor, because I cannot. If I could, I would. But
I have heard all about the new law which gives all

RAMONA. 355

the Indians' lands to the Americans. We cannot
help ourselves. But it is very hard, Seiior." He
paused.

The man, confused and embarrassed, astonished
beyond expression at being met in this way by an
Indian, did not find words come ready to his tongue.
" Of course, I know it does seem a little rough on
fellows like you, that are industrious, and have done
some work on the land. But you see the land 's in
the market ; I 've paid my money for it."

" The Senor is going to build a house ? " asked
Alessandro.

" Yes/' the man answered. " I 've got my family
in San Diego, and I want to get them settled as
soon as I can. My wife won't feel comfortable till
she 's in her own house. We 're from the States,
and she's been used to having everything comfort
able."

" I have a wife and child, Senor," said Alessandro,
still in the same calm, deliberate tone ; " and we
have a very good house of two rooms. It would save
the Senor's building, if he would buy mine."

" How far is it ? " said the man. " I can 't tell ex
actly where the boundaries of my land are, for the
stakes we set have been pulled up."

" Yes, Senor, I pulled them up and burned them.
They were on my land," replied Alessandro. " My
house is farther west than your stakes ; and I have
large wheat-fields there, too, — many acres, Senor, all
planted."

Here was a chance, indeed. The man's eyes
gleamed. He would do the handsome thing. He
would give this fellow something for his house and
wheat-crops. First he would see the house, however ;
and it was for that purpose he had walked back with
Alessandro. When he saw the neat whitewashed
adobe, with its broad veranda, the sheds and corrals

356 RAMONA.

all in good order, he instantly resolved to get posses
sion of them by lair means or foul.

"There will be three hundred dollars' worth of
wheat in July, Senor, you can see for yourself ; and a\
house so good as that, you cannot build for less than
one hundred dollars. What will you give me for
them ? "

" I suppose I can have them without paying you
for them, if I choose," said the man, insolently.

" No, Senor," replied Alessandro.

" What 's to hinder, then, I 'd like to know ! " in a
brutal sneer. "You have n't got any rights here,
whatever, according to law."

"I shall hinder, Senor," replied Alessandro. "I
shall burn down the sheds and corrals, tear down the
house ; and before a blade of the wheat is reaped, I
will burn that." Still in the same calm tone.

" What '11 you take ? " said the man, sullenly.

" Two hundred dollars," replied Alessandro.

" Well, leave your plough and wagon, and I '11 give
it to you," said the man ; " and a big fool I am, too.
Well laughed at, I'll be, do you know it, for buying
out an Indian ' "

"The wagon, Senor, cost me one hundred and
thirty dollars in San Diego. You cannot buy one so
good for less. I will not sell it. I need it to take
away my things in. The plough you may have.
That is worth twenty."

" I '11 do it," said the man ; and pulling out a heavy
buckskin pouch, he counted out into Alessandro's
hand two hundred dollars in gold.

" Is that all right ? " he said, as he put down the
last piece.

" That is the sum I said, Senor," replied Alessan
dro. "To-morrow, at noon, you can come into the
house."

" Where will you go ? " asked the man, again

RAMON A. 357

slightly touched by Alessandro's manner. "Why
don't you stay round here ? I expect you could get
work enough ; there are a lot of farmers coming in
here ; they '11 want hands."

A fierce torrent of words sprang to Alessandro's
lips, but he choked them back. " I do not know
where I shall go, but I will not stay here," he said ;
and that ended the interview.

" I don't know as I blame him a mite for feeling
that way," thought the man from the States, as he
walked slowly back to his pile of lumber. " I expect
I should feel just so myself."

Almost before Alessandro had finished this tale, he
began to move about the room, taking down, folding
up, opening and shutting lids ; his restlessness was
terrible to see. " By sunrise, I would like to be off,"
he said. " It is like death, to be in the house which
is no longer ours." Eamona had spoken no word
since her first cry on hearing that terrible laugh.
She was like one stricken dumb. The shock was
greater to her than to Alessandro. lie had lived
with it ever present in his thoughts for a year. She
had always hoped. But far more dreadful than the
loss of her home, was the anguish of seeing, hear
ing, the changed face, changed voice, of Alessandro.
Almost this swallowed up the other. She obeyed
him mechanically, working faster and faster as he
grew more and more feverish in his haste. Before
sundown the little house was dismantled ; every
thing, except the bed and the stove, packed in the
big wagon.

" Now, we must cook food for the journey," said
Alessandro.

" Where are we going ? " said the weeping Eamona.

" Where ? " ejaculated Alessandro, so scornfully
that it sounded like impatience with Eamona, and
made her tears ilow afresh. " Where ? I know not,

358 RAMONA.

Majella ! Into the mountains, where the white men
come not ! At sunrise we will start."

Eamona wished to say good-by to their friends.
There were women in the village that she tenderly
loved. But Alessandro was unwilling. " There
will be weeping and crying, Majella; I pray you
do not speak to one. Why should we have more
tears ? Let us disappear. I will say all to Ysidro.
He will tell them."

This was a sore grief to Eamona. In her heart
she rebelled against it, as she had never yet rebelled
against an act of Alessandro's ; but she could not
distress him. Was not his burden heavy enough
now ?

Without a word of farewell to any one, they set off
in the gray dawn, before a creature was stirring in
the village, — the wagon piled high ; Eamona, her
baby in her arms, in front ; Alessandro walking. The
load was heavy. Benito and Baba walked slowly.
Capitan, unhappy, looking first at Eamona's face,
then at Alessandro's, walked dispiritedly by their
side. He knew all was wrong.

As Alessandro turned the horses into a faintly
marked road leading in a northeasterly direction,
Eamona said with a sob, " Where does this road lead,
Alessandro ? "

" To San Jacinto," he said. " San Jacinto Moun
tain. Do not look back, Majella ! Do not look
back ! " he cried, as he saw Eamona, with streaming
eyes, gazing back towards San Pasquale. "Do not
look back ! It is gone ! Pray to the saints now.
Majella! Pray! Pray!"

XXI.

Senora Moreno was dying. It had been a
-1- sad two years in the Moreno house. After the
first excitement following Kamoria's departure had
died away, things had settled down in a surface
similitude of their old routine. But nothing was
really the same. No one was so happy as before.
Juan Canito was heart-broken. There had been set
over him the very Mexican whose coming to the
place he had dreaded. The sheep had not done
well ; there had been a drought ; many had died of
hunger, — a thing for which the new Mexican over
seer was not to blame, though it pleased Juan to hold
him so, and to say from morning till night that
if his leg had not been broken, or if the lad Ales-
sandro had been there, the wool-crop would have
been as big as ever. Not one of the servants liked
this Mexican ; he had a sorry time of it, poor fellow ;
each man and woman on the place had or fancied
some reason for being set against him ; some from
sympathy with Juan Can, some from idleness and
general impatience ; Margarita, most of all, because
he was not Alessandro. Margarita, between re
morse about her young mistress and pique and dis
appointment about Alessandro, had become a very
unhappy girl ; and her mother, instead of comforting
or soothing her, added to her misery by continually
bemoaning Eamona's fate. The void that Ramona
had left in the whole household seemed an irrepara
ble one ; nothing came to fill it ; there was no forget
ting ; every day her name was mentioned by some

360 RAMONA.

one ; mentioned with bated breath, fearful conjecture,
compassion, and regret. Where had she vanished ?
Had she indeed gone to the convent, as she said, or
had she fled with Alessandro ?

Margarita would have given her right hand to
know. Only Juan Can felt sure. Very well Juan
Can knew that nobody but Alessandro had the wit
and the power over Baba to lure him out of that corral,
"and never a rail out of its place." And the saddle,
too ! Ay, the smart lad ! He had done the best he
could for the Senorita ; but, Holy Virgin ! what had
got into the Senorita to run off like that, with an
Indian, — even Alessandro! The fiends had bewitched
her. Tirelessly Juan Can questioned every traveller,
every wandering herder he saw. No one knew any
thing of Alessandro, beyond the fact that all the Tc-
inecula Indians had been driven out of their village,
and that there was now not an Indian in the valley.
There was a rumor that Alessandro and his father
had both died ; but no one knew anything certainly.
The Temecula Indians had disappeared, that was all
there was of it, — disappeared, like any wild creatures,
foxes or coyotes ; hunted down, driven out ; the val
ley was rid of them. But the Senorita ! She was
not with these fugitives. That could not be ! Heaven
forbid !

" If I 'd my legs, I 'd go and see for myself ! " said
Juan Can. " It would be some comfort to know-
even the worst. Perdition take the Senora, who
drove her to it ! Ay, drove her to it ! That 's what
I say, Luigo." In some of his most venturesome
wrathy moments he would say : " There 's none of
you know the truth about the Senorita but me ! It 's
a hard hand the Senora 's reared her with, from the
first. She 's a wonderful woman, our Senora ! She
gets power over one."

But the Senora's power was shaken now. More

RAMONA. 361

changed than all else in the changed Moreno house
hold, was the relation between the Sefiora Moreno
and her son Felipe. On the morning after Eamona's
disappearance, words had been spoken by each which
neither would ever forget. In fact, the Senora believed
that it was of them she was dying, and perhaps that
was not far from the truth ; the reason that forces
could no longer rally in her to repel disease, lying
no doubt largely in the fact that to live seemed no
longer to her desirable.

Felipe had found the note Ramona had laid on his
bed. Before it was yet dawn he had waked, and
tossing uneasily under the light covering had heard
the rustle of the paper, and knowing instinctively
that it was from Ramoua, had risen instantly to make
sure of it. Before his mother opened her window,
he had read it. He felt like one bereft of his senses
as he read. Gone ! Gone with Alessandro ! Stolen
away like a thief in the night, his dear, sweet little
sister ! Ah, what a cruel shame ! Scales seemed to
drop from Felipe's eyes as he lay motionless, think
ing of it. A shame ! a cruel shame ! And he and
his mother were the ones who had brought it on
Eamoua's head, and on the house of Moreno. Felipe
felt as if he had been under a spell all along, not to
have realized this. " That 's what I told my mother ! "
he groaned, — " that it drove her to running away !
Oh, my sweet Eamona ! what will become of her ? I
will go after them, and bring them back ; " and Felipe
rose, and hastily dressing himself, ran down the ve
randa steps, to gain a little more time to think. He
returned shortly, to meet his mother standing in the
doorway, with pale, affrighted face.

" Felipe ! " she cried, " Ramona is not here."
" I know it," lie replied in an angry tone. " That is
what I told you we should do, — drive her to running
away with Alessandro ! "

3G2 RAMONA.

" With Alessandro ! " interrupted the Sefiora.

" Yes," continued Felipe, — " with Alessandro, the
Indian ! Perhaps you think it is less disgrace to the
names of Ortegna arid Moreno to have her run away
with him, than to be married to him here under
our roof ! I do not ! Curse the day, I say, when I
ever lent myself to breaking the girl's heart ! I am
going after them, to fetch them back ! "

If the skies had opened and rained fire, the Senora
had hardly less quailed and wondered than she did
at these words ; but even for fire from the skies she
would not surrender till she must.

" How know you that it is with Alessandro ? " she
said.

" Because she has written it here ! " cried Felipe,
defiantly holding up his little note. " She left this,
her good-by to me. Bless her ! She writes like a
saint, to thank me for all my goodness to her, — I,
who drove her to steal out of my house like a
thief!"

The phrase, " my house," smote the Senora's ear like
a note from some other sphere, which indeed it was,
— from the new world into which Felipe had been in'
an hour born. Her cheeks flushed, and she opened
her lips to reply ; but before she had uttered a word,
Luigo came running round the corner, Juan Can hob
bling after him at a miraculous pace on his crutches.
" Senor Felipe ! Senor Felipe ! Oh, Senora ! " they
cried. " Thieves have been here in the night ! Baba
is gone, — Baba, and the Senorita's saddle."

A malicious smile broke over the Senora's counte
nance, and turning to Felipe, she said in a tone —
what a tone it was ! Felipe felt as if he must put
his hands to his ears to shut it out ; Felipe would
never forget, — " As you were saying, like a thief in
the night!"

With a swifter and more energetic movement than

RAMONA. 363

any had ever before seen Senor Felipe make, he stepped
forward, saying in an undertone to his mother, " For
God's sake, mother, not a word before the men ! —
What is that you say, Luigo ? Baba gone ? We
must see to our corral. I will come down, after
breakfast, and look at it ; " and turning his back on
them, he drew his mother by a firm grasp, she could
not resist, into the house.

She gazed at him in sheer, dumb wonder.

" Ay, mother," he said, " you may well look thus
in wonder; I have been no man, to let my foster-
sister, I care not what blood were in her veins,
be driven to this pass ! I will set out this day, and
bring her back."

" The day you do that, then, I lie in this house
dead ! " retorted the Sefiora, at white heat. " You
may rear as many Indian families as you please under
the Moreno roof, I will at least have my grave ! " In
spite of her anger, grief convulsed her; and in another
second she had burst into tears, and sunk helpless
and trembling into a chair. No counterfeiting now.
No pretences. The Senora Moreno's heart broke
within her, when those words passed her lips to her
adored Felipe. At the sight, Felipe flung himself
on his knees before her ; he kissed the aged hands
as they lay trembling in her lap. " Mother mia," he
cried, "you will break my heart if you speak like
that ! Oh, why, why do you command me to do what
a man may not ? I would die for you, my mother ;
but how can I see my sister a homeless wanderer in
the wilderness ? "

" I suppose the man Alessandro has something he
calls a home," said the Sefiora, regaining herself a
little. " Had they no plans ? Spoke she not in her
letter of what they would do ? "

" Only that they would go to Father Salvierderra
first," he replied.

304 RAMON A.

" Ah ! " The Seiiora reflected. At first startled,
her second thought was that this would be the best
possible thing which could happen. " Father Sal-
vierderra will counsel them what to do," she said.
" He could no doubt establish them in Santa Bar
bara in some way. My son, when you reflect, you will
see the impossibility of bringing them here. Help
them in any way you like, but do not bring them
here." She paused. " Not until I am dead, Felipe !
It will not be long."

Felipe bowed his head in his mother's lap. She
laid her hands on his hair, and stroked it with passion
ate tenderness. " My Felipe ! " she said. " It was a
cruel fate to rob me of you at the last ! "

" Mother ! mother ! " he cried in anguish. " I am
yours, — wholly, devotedly yours ! Why do you
torture me thus ? "

" I will not torture you more," she said wearily,
in a feeble tone. " I ask only one thing of you ; let
me never hear again the name of that wretched girl,
who has brought all this woe on our house ; let her
name never be spoken on this place by man, woman,
or child. Like a thief in the night ! Ay, a horse-
thief ! "

Felipe sprang to his feet.

" Mother ! " he said, " Baba was Ramona's own ; I
myself gave him to her as soon as he was bom ! "

The Sefiora made no reply. She had fainted.
Calling the maids, in terror and sorrow Felipe bore
her to her bed, and she did not leave it for many
days. She seemed hovering between life and death.
Felipe watched over her as a lover might ; her great
mournful eyes followed his every motion. She spoke
little, partly because of physical weakness, partly
from despair. The Senora had got her death-blow.
She would die hard. It would take long. Yet she was
dying, and she knew it.

RAMON A. 365

Felipe did not know it. When he saw her going
about again, with a step only a little slower than
before, and with a countenance not so much changed
as he had feared, he thought she would be well again,
after a time. And now he would go in search of
Karnona. How he hoped he should find them in
Santa Barbara ! He must leave them there, or wher
ever he should find them; never again would he for a
moment contemplate the possibility of bringing them
home with him. But he would see them ; help them,
if need be. Rarnona should not feel herself an out
cast, so long as he lived.

When he said, agitatedly, to his mother, one night,
" You are so strong now, mother, I think I will take
a journey; I will not be away long, — not over a
week," she understood, and with a deep sigh replied :
" I am not strong ; but I am as strong as I shall ever
be. If the journey must be taken, it is as well done
now."

How was the Sefiora changed !

" It must be, mother," said Felipe, " or I would not
leave you. I will set off before sunrise, so I will say
farewell to-night."

But in the morning, at his first step, his mother's
window opened, and there she stood, wan, speechless,
looking at him. " You must go, my son ? " she asked
at last.

" I must, mother ! " and Felipe threw his arms around
her, and kissed her again and again. " Dearest mother }
Do smile ! Can you not ? "

"No, my son, I cannot. Farewell. The saints
keep you. Farewell." And she turned, that she
might not see him go.

Felipe rode away with a sad heart, but his purpose
did not falter. Following straight down the river road
to the sea, he then kept up along the coast, asking
here and there, cautiously, if persons answering to the

366 RAM ON A,

description of Alessandro and Eamona had been seen.
No one had seen any such persons.

When, on the night of the second day, he rode up
to the Santa Barbara Mission, the first figure he saw-
was the venerable Father Salvierderra sitting in the
corridor. As Felipe approached, the old man's face1
beamed witli pleasure, and he came forward totter-
ingly, leaning on a staff in each hand. " Welcome,
my son ! " he said. " Are all well ? You find me very
feeble just now ; my legs are failing me sorely this
autumn."

Dismay seized on Felipe at the Father's first words.
He would not have spoken thus, had he seen Eamona.
Barely replying to the greeting, Felipe exclaimed:
" Father, I come seeking Eamona. Has she not been
with you ? "

Father Salvierderra's face was reply to the ques
tion. " Eamona ! " he cried. " Seeking Eamona !
What has befallen the blessed child ? "

It was a bitter story for Felipe to tell ; but he told
it, sparing himself no shame, lie would have suffered
less in the telling, had he known how well Father
Salvierderra understood his mother's character, and
her almost unlimited power over all persons around
her. Father Salvierderra was not shocked at the news
of Eamona's attachment for Alessandro. He regretted
it, but he did not think it shame, as the Senora had
done. As Felipe talked with him, he perceived even
more clearly how bitter and unjust his mother had
been to Alessandro.

"He is a noble young man," said Father Salvier-,
derra. " His father was one of the most trusted of
Father Peyri's assistants. You must find them, Felipe.
I wonder much they did not come to me. Perhaps
they may yet come. When you find them, bear them
my blessing, and say that I wish they would come
^hither. I would like to give them my blessing be-

RAMONA, 307

fore I die. Felipe, I shall never leave Santa Barbara
again. My time draws near."

Felipe was so full of impatience to continue his
search, that he hardly listened to the Father's words.
" I will not tarry," he said. " I cannot rest till I
find her. I will ride back as far as Ventura to
night."

" You will send me word by a messenger, when you
find them," said the Father. "God grant no harm
has befallen them. 1 will pray for them, Felipe ; "
and he tottered into the church.

Felipe's thoughts, as he retraced his road, were full
of bewilderment and pain. He was wholly at loss to
conjecture what course Alessandro and llamona had
taken, or what could have led them to abandon their
intention of going to Father Salvierderra. Temecula
seemed the only place, now, to look for them ; and
yet from Temecula Felipe had heard, only a few days
before leaving home, that there was not an Indian
left in the valley. But he could at least learn there
where the Indians had gone. Poor as the clew
seemed, it was all he had. Cruelly Felipe urged his
horse on his return journey. He grudged an hour's
rest to himself or to the beast ; and before he reached
the head of the Temecula canon the creature was
near spent. At the steepest part he jumped off and
walked, to save her strength. As he was toiling
slowly up a narrow, rocky pass, he suddenly saw an
Indian's head peering over the ledge. He made
signs to him to come down. The Indian turned hisri
head, and spoke to some one behind ; one after an
other a score of figures rose. They made signs to
Felipe to come up. " Poor things ! " he thought ;
" they are afraid." He shouted to them that his
horse was too tired to climb that wall ; but if they
would come down, he would give them money, hold
ing up a gold-piece. They consulted among them-

3G8 RAMONA.

selves ; presently they began slowly descending, still
halting at intervals, and looking suspiciously at him.
He held up the gold again, and beckoned. As soon
as they could see his face distinctly, they broke into
a run. That was no enemy's face.

Only one of the number could speak Spanish. On
hearing this man's reply to Felipe's first question, a
woman, who had listened sharply and caught the
word Alessandro, came forward, and spoke rapidly in
the Indian tongue.

" This woman has seen Alessandro," said the man.

" Where ? " said Felipe, breathlessly

" In Temecula, two weeks ago," he said.

" Ask her if he had any one with him," said
Felipe.

" No," said the woman. " He was alone."

A convulsion passed over Felipe's face. " Alone ! "
What did this mean ! He reflected. The woman
watched him. " Is she sure he was alone ; there was
no one with him ? "

"Yes"

" Was he riding a big black horse ? "

"No, a white horse," answered the woman,
promptly. " A small white horse."

It was Carmena, every nerve of her loyal nature
on the alert to baffle this pursuer of Alessandro and
Ramona. Again Felipe reflected. " Ask her if she
saw him for any length of time ; how long she saw
him."

" All night," he answered. " He spent the night
'where she did."

Felipe despaired. " Does she know where he is
now ? " he asked.

" He was going to San Luis Obispo, to go in a ship
to Monterey."

" What to do ? "

" She does not know."

RAMON A. 3G9

" Did he say when he would come back ? "

" Yes."

" When ? "

" Never ! He said he would never set foot in
Temecula again."

" Does she know him well ? "

" As well as her own brother."

What more could Felipe ask ? With a groan,
wrung from the very depths of his heart, he tossed
the man a gold-piece ; another to the woman. " I
am sorry," he said. " Alessandro was my friend.
I wanted to see him ; " and he rode away, Carmena's
eyes following him with a covert gleam of triumph.

When these last words of his were interpreted
to her, she started, made as if she would run
after him, but checked herself. " No," she thought.
" It may be a lie. He may be an enemy, for all
that. I will not tell. Alessandro wished not to be
found. I will not tell."

And thus vanished the last chance of succor for
liarnona ; vanished in a moment ; blown like a
thistle-down on a chance breath, — the breath of a
loyal, loving friend, speaking a lie to save her.

Distraught with grief, Felipe returned home. Ea-
mona had been very ill when she left home. Had
she died, and been buried by the lonely, sorrowing
Alessandro ? And was that the reason Alessandro
was goiug away to the North, never to return ? Fool
that he was, to have shrunk from speaking Eamona's
name to the Indians ! He would return, and ask
again. As soon as he had seen his mother, he would
set oft' again, and never cease searching till he had
found either Ramona or her grave. But when Felipe
entered his mother's presence, his first look in her
face told him that he would not leave her side
again until he had laid her at rest in the tomb.

" Thank God ! you have come, Felipe," she said in
24

370 RAMON A.

a feeble voice. " I bad begun to fear you would not
come in time to say farewell to me. I am going to
leave you, my son ; " and the tears rolled down her
cheeks.

Though she no longer wished to live, neither did
she wish to die, — this poor, proud, passionate, de
feated, bereft Senora. All the consolations of her
religion seemed to fail her. She had prayed inces
santly, but got no peace. She fixed her imploring
eyes on the Virgin's face and on the saints ; but all
seemed to her to wear a forbidding look. " If Father
Salvierderra would only come!" she groaned. "He
could give me peace. If only I can live till he comes
again ! "

When Felipe told her of the old man's feeble state,
and that he would never again make the journey, sho
turned her face to the wall and wept. Not only for
her own soul's help did she wish to see him: she
wished to put into his hands the Ortegna jewels.
What would become of them ? To whom should she
transfer the charge ? Was there a secular priest
within reach that she could trust ? When her sister
had said, in her instructions, " the Church," she
meant, as the Senora Moreno well knew, the Fran
ciscans. The Senora dared not consult Felipe ; yet
she must. Day by day these fretting anxieties and
perplexities wasted her strength, and her fever grew
higher and higher. She asked no questions as to the
result of Felipe's journey, and he dared not mention
Ramona's name. At last he could bear it no longer,
and one day said, "Mother, I found no trace of
liamona. I have not the least idea where she is.
The Father had not seen her or heard of her. I fear
she is dead."

" Better so," was the Senora's sole reply ; and she
fell again into still deeper, more perplexed thought
about the hidden treasure. Each day she resolved,

RAMONA. 371

"To-morrow I will tell Felipe ;" and when to-morrow
came, she put it oif again. Finally she decided not
to do it till she found herself dying. Father Sal-
vierderra might yet come once more, and then all
would be well. With trembling hands she wrote
him a letter, imploring him to be brought to her, and
sent it by messenger, who was empowered to hire a
litter and four men to bring the Father gently and
carefully all the way. But when the messenger
reached Santa Barbara, Father Salvierderra was too
feeble to be moved ; too feeble even to write. He
could write only by amanuensis, and wrote, therefore,
guardedly, sending her his blessing, and saying that
he hoped her foster-child might yet be restored to
the keeping of her friends. The Father had been in
sore straits of mind, as month after month had
passed without tidings of his " blessed child."

Soon after this carne the news that the Father
was dead. This dealt the Senora a terrible blow.
She never left her bed after it. And so the year had
worn on ; and Felipe, mourning over his sinking and
failing mother, and haunted by terrible fears about
the lost Eamona, had been tortured indeed.

But the end drew near, now. The Senora was
plainly dying. The Ventura doctor had left off com
ing, saying that he could do no more ; nothing re
mained but to give her what ease was possible ; in a
day or two more all would be over. Felipe hardly
left her bedside. Earely was mother so loved and
nursed by son. No daughter could have shown more
tenderness and devotion. In the close relation and
affection of these last days, the sense of alienation
and antagonism faded from both their hearts.

" My adorable Felipe ! " she would murmur.
"What a son hast thou been !" And, "My beloved
mother ! How shall I give you up ? " Felipe would
reply, bowing his head on her hands, — so wasted now.

372 RAMONA.

so white, so weak ; those hands which had been cruel
and strong little more than one short year ago. Ah,
no one could refuse to forgive the Senora now ! The
gentle Eamona, had she seen her, had wept tears of
pity. Her eyes wore at times a look almost of terror.
It was the secret. How should she speak it ? What
would Felipe say ? At last the moment came. She
had been with difficulty roused from a long fainting ;
one more such would be the last, she knew, — knew
even better than those around her. As she regained
consciousness, she gasped, " Felipe ! Alone ! "

He understood, and waved the rest away.

" Alone ! " she said again, turning her eyes to the
door.

" Leave the room," said Felipe ; " all — wait out
side ; " and he closed the door on them. Even then
the Senora hesitated. Almost was she ready to
go out of life leaving the hidden treasure to its
chance of discovery, rather than with her own lips
reveal to Felipe what she saw now, saw with the
terrible, relentless clear-sightedness of death, would
make him, even after she was in her grave, reproach
her in his thoughts.

But she dared not withhold it. It must be said.
Pointing to the statue of Saint Catharine, whose face
seemed, she thought, to frown unforgiving upon her,
she said, " Felipe — behind that statue — look ! "

Felipe thought her delirious, and said tenderly,
" Nothing is there, dearest mother. Be calm. I am
here."

New terror seized the dying woman. Was she to
be forced to carry the secret to the grave ? to be de
nied this late avowal ? " No ! no ! Felipe — there is
a door there — secret door. Look ! Open ! I must
tell you ! "

Hastily Felipe moved the statue. There was indeed
the door, as she had said.

RAMON A. 373

" Do not tell me now, mother dear. Wait till you
are stronger," he said. As he spoke, he turned, and
saw, with alarm, his mother sitting upright in the
bed, her right arm outstretched, her hand pointing to
the door, her eyes in a glassy stare, her face convulsed.
Before a cry could pass his lips, she had fallen back.
The Senora Moreno was dead.

At Felipe's cry, the women waiting in the hall
hurried in, wailing aloud as their first glance showed
them all was over. In the confusion, Felipe, with a
pale, set face, pushed the statue back into its place.
Even then a premonition of horror swept over him.
What was he, the son, to find behind that secret door,
at sight of which his mother had died with thatrlook
of anguished terror in her eyes ? All through the sad
duties of the next four days Felipe was conscious of
the undercurrent of this premonition. The funeral
ceremonies were impressive. The little chapel could
not hold the quarter part of those who came, from
far and near. Everybody wished to do honor to the
Senora Moreno. A priest from Ventura and one from
San Luis Obispo were there. When all was done,
they bore the Senora to the little graveyard on the
hillside, and laid her by the side of her husband and
her children ; silent and still at last, the restless,
passionate, proud, sad heart ! When, the night after
the funeral, the servants saw Senor Felipe going into
his mother's room, they shuddered, and whispered,
" Oh, he must not ! He will break his heart, Senor
Felipe ! How he loved her ! "

Old Marda ventured to follow him, and at the
threshold said : " Dear Senor Felipe, do not ! It is
not good to go there ! Come away ! "

But he put her gently by, saying, " I wrould rather
be here, good Marda ; " and went in and locked the
door.

It was past midnight when he came out His face

374 RAMONA.

was stern. He had buried his mother again. Well
might the Senora have dreaded to tell to Felipe the
tale of the Ortegna treasure. Until he reached
the bottom of the jewel-box, and found the Senora
Ortegna's letter to his mother, he was in entire
bewilderment at all he saw. After he had read this
letter, he sat motionless for a long time, his head
buried in his hands. His soul was wrung.

" And she thought that shame, and not this ! " he
said bitterly.

But one thing remained for Felipe now. If Ra-
mona lived, he would find her, and restore to her this
her rightful property. If she were dead, it must go
to the Santa Barbara College.

" Surely my mother must have intended to give it
to the Church," he said. " But why keep it all this
time ? It is this that has killed her. Oh, shame !
oh, disgrace ! " From the grave in which Felipe had
buried his mother now, was no resurrection.

Replacing everything as before in the safe hiding-
place, he sat down and wrote a letter to the Superior
of the Santa Barbara College, telling him of the
existence of these valuables, which in certain contin
gencies would belong to the College. Early in the
morning he gave this letter to Juan Canito, saying:
" I am going away, Juan, on a journey. If anything
happens to me, and I do not return, send this letter
by trusty messenger to Santa Barbara."

" Will you be long away, Senor Felipe ? " asked the
old man, piteously.

" I cannot tell, Juan," replied Felipe. " It may be
Vmly a short time ; it may be long. I leave every
thing in your care. You will do all according to
your best judgment, I know. I will say to all that
I have left you in charge."

" Thanks, Senor Felipe ! Thanks ! " exclaimed Juan,
happier than he had been for two years. " Indeed,

RAMON A. 375

you may trust me ! From the time you were a boy
till now, I have had no thought except for your
house."

Even in heaven the Senora Moreno had felt woe
as if in hell, had she known the thoughts with which
her Felipe galloped this morning out of the gate
way through which, only the day before, he had
walked weeping behind her body borne to burial.

" And she thought this no shame to the house of
Moreno ! " he said. " My God ! "

XXII.

DURING the first day of Eamona's and Alessan-
dro's sad journey they scarcely spoke. Ales-
sandro walked at the horses' heads, his face sunk on
his breast, his eyes fixed on the ground. Eamona
watched him in anxious fear. Even the baby's voice
and cooing laugh won from him no response. After
they were camped for the night, she said, "Dear
Alessandro, will you not tell me where we are going ? "

In spite of her gentleness, there was a shade of
wounded feeling in her tone. Alessandro flung him
self on his knees before her, and cried : " My Majella !
my Majella ! it seems to me I am going mad! I can
not tell what to do. I do not know what I think ; all
my thoughts seem whirling round as leaves do in
brooks in the time of the spring rains. Do you
think I can be going mad ? It was enough to make
me!"

Ramona, her own heart wrung with fear, soothed
him as best she could. " Dear Alessandro," she said,
"let us go to Los Angeles, and not live with the
Indians any more. You could get work there. You.
could play at dances sometimes ; there must be
plenty of work. I could get more sewing to do, too.
It would be better, I think."

He looked horror-stricken at the thought. " Go
live among the white people ! " he cried. " What
does Majella think would become of one Indian, or
two, alone among whites ? If they will come to our
villages and drive us out a hundred at a time, what
would they do to one man alone ? Oh, Majella is
foolish!"

RAMONA. 377

" But there are many of your people at work for
whites at San Bernardino and other places," she per
sisted. " Why could not we do as they do ? "

" Yes," he said bitterly, " at work for whites ; so
they are ! Majella has not seen. No man will pay
an Indian but half wages ; even long ago, when the
Fathers were not all gone, and tried to help the In
dians, my father has told me that it was the way
only to pay an Indian one-half that a white man or
a Mexican had. It was the Mexicans, too, did that,
Majella. And new they pay the Indians in money
sometimes, half wages ; sometimes in bad flour, 01-
things he does not want ; sometimes in whiskey ;
and if he will not take it, and asks for his money,
they laugh, and tell him to go, then. One man in
San Bernardino last year, when an Indian would not
take a bottle of sour wine for pay for a day's work,
shot him in the cheek with his pistol, and told him
to mind how he was insolent any more ! Oh, Ma
jella, do not ask me to go work in the towns ! I
should kill some man, Majella, if I saw things like
that."

Eamona shuddered, and was silent. Alessandro
continued : " If Majella would not be afraid, I know
a place, high up on the mountain, where no white man
has ever been, or ever will be. I found it when I was
following a bear. The beast led me up. It was his
home ; and I said then, it was a fit hiding-place for a
man. There is water, and a little green valley. We
could live there ; but it would be no more than to
live ; it is very small, the valley. Majella would be
afraid ? "

" Yes, Alessandro, I would be afraid, all alone on
a high mountain. Oh, do not let us go there ! Try
something else first, Alessandro. Is there no other
Indian village you know ? "

" There is Saboba," he said, " at foot of the San

378 RAMONA.

Jacinto Mountain ; I had thought of that. Some of my
people went there from Temecula ; but it is a poor
little village, Majella. Majella would not like to live in
it. Neither do I believe it will long be any safer than
San Pasquale. There was a kind, good old man who
owned all that valley, — Senor Eavallo ; he found the
village of Saboba there when he came to the country.
It is one of the very oldest of all ; he was good to all
Indians, and he said they should never be disturbed,
never. He is dead ; but his three sons have the estate
yet, and I think they would keep their father's prom
ise to the Indians. But you see, to-morrow, Majella,
they may die, or go back to Mexico, as Senor Valdez
did, and then the Americans will get it, as they
did Temecula. And there are already white men liv
ing in the valley. We will go that way, Majella.
Majella shall see. If she says stay, we will stay."

It was in the early afternoon that they entered the
broad valley of San Jacinto. They entered if from
the west. As they came in, though the sky over
their heads was overcast and gray, the eastern and
northeastern part of the valley was flooded with a
strange light, at once ruddy and golden. It was a
glorious sight. The jagged top and spurs of San
Jacinto Mountain shone like the turrets and pos
terns of a citadel built of rubies. The glow seemed
preternatural.

" Behold San Jacinto ! " cried Alessandro.

Eamona exclaimed in delight. "It is an omen ! "
she said. " We are going into the sunlight, out of
the shadow ; " and she glanced back at the wrest, which
was of a slaty blackness.

"I like it not!" said Alessandro. "The shadow
follows too fast ! "

Indeed it did. Even as he spoke, a fierce wind
blew from the north, and tearing off fleeces from
the black cloud, sent them in scurrying masses across

RAMON A. 379

the sky. In a moment more, snow-flakes began to
fall.

" Holy Virgin ! " cried Alessandro. Too well he
knew what it meant. He urged the horses, running
fast beside^ them. It was of 110 use. Too much even
for Baba and Benito to make any haste, with the
heavily loaded wagon.

" There is an old sheep-corral and a hut not over
a mile farther, if we could but reach it ! " groaned
Alessandro. " Majella, you and the child will freeze."

" She is warm on my breast," said Eamona ; " but,
Alessandro, what ice in this wind ! It is like a knife
at my back ! "

Alessandro uttered another ejaculation of dismay.
The snow was fast thickening ; already the track was
covered. The wind lessened.

" Thank God, that wind no longer cuts as it did,"
said Eamona, her teeth chattering, clasping the baby
closer and closer.

" I would rather it blew than not," said Alessan
dro ; " it will carry the snow before it. A little more
of this, and we cannot see, any more than in the
night."

Still thicker and faster fell the snow ; the air was
dense ; it was, as Alessandro had said, worse than the
darkness of night, — this strange opaque whiteness,
thick, choking, freezing one's breath. Presently the
rough jolting of the wagon showed that they were off
the road. The horses stopped ; refused to go on.

" We are lost, if we stay here ! " cried Alessandro.
"Come, my Benito, come 1" and he took him by the
head, and pulled him by main force back into the
road, and led him along. It was terrible. Eamona's
heart sank within her. She felt her arms growing
numb; how much longer could she hold the baby
safe ? She called to Alessaudro. He did not hear
her ; the wind had risen again ; the snow was being

380 RAMONA.

blown in masses ; it was like making headway among
whirling snow-drifts.

" We will die," thought Ramona. " Perhaps it is
as well ! " And that was the last she knew, till she
heard a shouting, and found herself being shaken and
beaten, and heard a strange voice saying, " Sorry ter
handle yer so rough, ma'am, but we 've got ter git yer
out ter the fire ! "

" Fire ! " Were there such things as fire and
warmth ? Mechanically she put the baby into the
unknown arms that were reaching up to her, and tried
to rise from her seat ; but she could not move.

" Set still ! set still !" said the strange voice. " I '11
jest carry the baby ter my wife, an' come back fur
you. I allowed yer could n't git up on yer feet ; " and
the tall form disappeared. The baby, thus vigorously
disturbed from her warm sleep, began to cry.

"Thank God!" said Alessandro, at the plunging
horses' heads. " The child is alive ! Majella ! " he
called.

" Yes, Alessandro," she answered faintly, the gusts
sweeping her voice like a distant echo past him.

It was a marvellous rescue. They had been nearer
the old sheep-corral than Alessandro had thought ;
but except that other storm-beaten travellers had
reached it before them, Alessandro had never found
it. Just as he felt his strength failing him, and had
thought to himself, in almost the same despairing
words as Earnona, "This will end all our troubles,"
he saw a faint light to the left. Instantly he had
turned the horses' heads towards it. The ground was
rough and broken, and more than once he had been in
danger of overturning the wagon ; but he had pressed
on, shouting at intervals for help. At last his call
was answered, and another light appeared ; this time
a swinging one, coming slowly towards him, — a
lantern, in the hand of a man, whose first words.

RAMON A. 381

" Wall, stranger, I allow yer inter trouble," were as
intelligible to Alessandro as if they had been spoken
in the purest San Luiseno dialect.

Not so, to the stranger, Alessandro's grateful reply
in Spanish.

"Another o' these no-'count Mexicans, by thunder ! "
thought Jeff Hyer to himself. " Blamed ef I 'd lived
in a country all my life, ef I would n't know better 'n
to git caught out in such weather 's this ! " And as
he put the crying babe into his wife's arms, he said
half impatiently, "Ef I 'd knowed 't wuz Mexicans,
Hi, I would n't ev' gone out ter 'um. They 're more
ter hum 'n I am, 'n these yer tropicks."

"Naow, Jeff, yer know yer would n't let enny-
thin' in shape ev a human creetur go perishin' past
aour fire sech weather 's this," replied the woman, as
she took the baby, which recognized the motherly
hand at its first touch, and ceased crying.

" Why, yer pooty, blue-eyed little thing ! " she
exclaimed, as she looked into the baby's face. "I
declar, Jos, think o' sech a mite 's this bein' aout 'n
this weather. I '11 jest warm up some milk for it
this minnit."

" Better see 't th' mother fust, Ei," said Jeff, lead
ing, half carrying, Ramona into the hut. " She 's nigh
abaout froze stiff ! "

But the sight of her baby safe and smiling was a
better restorative for Eamona than anything else,
and in a few moments she had fully recovered. It
was in a strange group she found herself. On a
mattress, in the corner of the hut, lay a young man
apparently about twenty-five, whose bright eyes and
flushed cheeks told but too plainly the story of his
disease. The woman, tall, ungainly, her face gaunt,
her hands hardened and wrinkled, gown ragged,
shoes ragged, her dry and broken light hair wound
in a careless, straggling knot in her neck, wisps of it

382 RAMON A.

flying over her forehead, was certainly not a pre
possessing figure. Yet spite of her careless, un
kempt condition, there was a certain gentle dignity
in her bearing, and a kindliness in her glance, which
won trust and wanned hearts at once. Her pale hlue
eves were still keen-sighted ; and as she fixed them
on llamona, she thought to herself, " This ain't no
common Mexican, no how." " Be ye movers ? " she
said.

Ramona stared. In the little English she knew,
that word was not included. " Ah, Sefiora," she said
regretfully, " I cannot talk in the English speech ;
only in Spanish."

" Spanish, eh ? Yer mean Mexican ? Jos, hyar, he
kin talk thet. He can't talk much, though ; 't ain 't
good fur him ; his lungs is out er kilter. Thet 's what
we 're bringin' him hyar fur, — fur warm climate !
'pears like it, don't it ? " and she chuckled grimly,
but with a side glance of ineffable tenderness at the
sick man. " Ask her who they be, Jos," she added.

Jos lifted himself on his elbow, and fixing his shin
ing eyes on Earnona, said in Spanish, " My mother
asks if you are travellers ? "

" Yes," said Ramona. " We have come all the way
from San Diego. We are Indians."

" Injuns ! " ejaculated Jos's mother. " Lord save
us, Jos ! Hev we reelly took in Injuns ? What on
airth — Well, well, she's fond uv her baby's enny
white woman ! I kin see thet ; an', Injun or no Injun,
they Ve got to stay naow. Yer could n't turn a dog
out 'n sech weather 's this. I bet thet baby's father
wuz white, then. Look at them blue eyes."

Ramona listened and looked intently, but could
understand nothing. Almost she doubted if the
woman were really speaking English. She had never
before heard so many English sentences without
being able to understand one word. The Tennessee

RAMONA. 383

drawl so altered even the commonest words, that she
did not recognize them. Turning to Jos, she said
gently, "I know very little English. I am so sorry I
cannot understand. Will it tire you to interpret to,
me what your mother said ? "

Jos was as full of humor as his mother. " She*
wants me to tell her what you wuz sayin'," he said.
" I allow, I '11 only tell her the part on 't she 11 like
best. — My mother says you can stay here with us
till the storm is over," he said to Kainona.

Swifter than lightning, Eamoua had seized the
woman's hand and carried it to her heart, with
an expressive gesture of gratitude and emotion.
" Thanks ! thanks ! Senora ! " she cried.

"What is it she calls me, Jos ?" asked his mother.

" Senora," he replied. " It only means the same as
lady."

" Shaw, Jos ! You tell her I ain't any lady. Tell
her everybody round where we 1 ive calls me ' Aunt
Ei,' or ' Mis Hyer ;' she kin call me whichever she 's a
mind to. She 's reel sweet-spoken."

With some difficulty Jos explained his mother's
disclaimer of the title of Senora, and the choice of
names she offered to Eamona.

Eamona, with smiles which won both mother and
son, repeated after him both names, getting neither
exactly right at first trial, and finally said, "I like
' Aunt Ei ' best ; she is so kind, like aunt, to every
one."

" ISTaow, ain't thet queer, Jos," said Aunt Ei, " aout
here 'n thes wilderness to ketch sumbody sayin' thet,
—jest what they all say ter hum? I donno 's I'm
enny kinder 'n ennybody else. I don't want ter see
ennybody put upon, nor noways sufferin', of so be 's
I kin help ; but thet ain't ennythin' stronary, ez
I know. I donno how ennybody could feel enny
different."

384 BAMONA.

" There 's lots doos, mammy," replied Jos, affection
ately. " Yer 'd find out fast enuf, ef yer went raound
more. There 's mighty few 's good 's you air ter
everybody."

liamoua was crouching in the corner by the fire,
her baby held close to her breast. The place which
i at first had seemed a haven of warmth, she now saw
was indeed but a poor shelter against the fearful
storm which raged outside. It was only a hut of
rough boards, carelessly knocked together for a shep
herd's temporary home. It had been long unused,
and many of the boards were loose and broken.
Through these crevices, at every blast of the wind,
the fine snow swirled. On the hearth were burning
a few sticks of wood, dead cottonwood branches,
which Jeff Hyer had hastily collected before the
storm reached its height. A few more sticks lay by
the hearth. Aunt Hi glanced at them anxiously.
A poor provision for a night in the snow. " Be ye
warm, Jos ? " she asked.

" Not very, mammy," lie said ; " but I ain't cold,
nuther ; an' thet 's somethin'."

It was the way in the Hyer family to make the
best of things ; they had always possessed this virtue
to such an extent, that they suffered from it as from a
vice. There was hardly to be found in all Southern
Tennessee a more contented, shiftless, ill-bestead fam
ily than theirs. But there was no grumbling. What
ever went wrong, whatever was lacking, it was "jest
like aour luck," they said, and did nothing, or next to
nothing, about it. Good-natured, affectionate, humor
ous people ; after all, they got more comfort out of
life than many a family whose surface conditions
were incomparably better than theirs. When Jos,
their oldest child and only son, broke down, had
hemorrhage after hemorrhage, and the doctor said
the only thing that could save him was to go across

RAMON A. 335

the plains in a wagon to California, they said, " What
good luck 'Lizy was married last year ! Now there
ain't im thin' ter hinder sellin' the farm '11 goin' right
off." And they sold their little place for half it
was worth, traded cattle for a pair of horses and a
covered wagon, and set off, half beggared, with their
sick boy on a bed in the bottom of the wagon, as
cheery as if they were rich people on a pleasure-trip.
A pair of steers " to spell " the horses, and a cow to
give milk for Jos, they drove before them; and so
they had come by slow stages, sometimes camping for
a week at a time, all the way from Tennessee to the
San Jacinto Valley. They were rewarded. Jos was
getting well. Another six months, they thought,
would see him cured ; and it would have gone hard
with any one who had tried to persuade either Jeffer
son or Maria Hyer that they were not as lucky
a couple as could be found. Had they not saved
Joshua, their son ?

Nicknames among this class of poor whites in the
South seern singularly like those in vogue in New
England. From totally opposite motives, the lazy,
easy-going Tennesseean and the hurry-driven Ver-
monter cut down all their family names to the
shortest. To speak three syllables where one will
answer, seems to the Vermonter a waste of time ; to
the Tennesseean, quite too much trouble. Mrs. Hyer
could hardly recollect ever having heard her name,
" Maria," in full ; as a child, and until she was mar
ried, she was simply " Ei ;" and as soon as she had a
house of her own, to become a centre of hospitality
and help, she was adopted by common consent of
the neighborhood, in a sort of titular and universal
aunt-hood, which really was a much greater tribute
and honor than she dreamed. Not a man, woman, or
child, within her reach, that did not call her or know
of her as " Aunt Ei."

25

386 RAMON A.

"I donno whether I'd best make enny more fire
naow or not," she said reflectively ; " ef this storm 's
goin' to last till mornin', we '11 come short o' wood,
thet's clear." As she spoke, the door of the hut
burst open, and her husband staggered in, followed
by Alessandro, both covered with snow, their arms
full of wood. Alessandro, luckily, knew of a little
clump of young cottonwood-trees in a ravine, only a
few rods from the house ; and the first thing he had
thought of, after tethering the horses in shelter be
tween the hut and the wagons, was to get wood. Jeff,
seeing him take a hatchet from the wagon, had un
derstood, got his own, and followed ; and now there
lay on the ground enough to keep them warm for
hours. As soon as Alessandro had thrown down his
load, he darted to Eamona, and kneeling down, looked
anxiously into the baby's face, then into hers ; then
he said devoutly, "The saints be praised, my Majella !
It is a miracle ! "

Jos listened in dismay to this ejaculation. "Ef
they ain't Catholics!" he thought. "What kind o'
Injuns be they, I wonder. I won't tell mammy
they 're Catholics ; she 'd feel wuss 'n ever. I don't
care what they be. Thet gal 's got the sweetest
eyes 'n her head ever I saw sence I wuz born."

By help of Jos's interpreting, the two families soon
became well acquainted with each other's condition
and plans ; and a feeling of friendliness, surprising
under the circumstances, grew up between them.

" Jeff, " said Aunt Hi, — " Jeff, they can't under
stand a word we say, so 't 's no harm done, I s'pose,
to speak afore 'em, though 't don't seem hardly fair to
take advantage o' their not knowin' any language but
their own ; but I jest tell you thet I 've got a lesson 'n
the subjeck uv Injuns. I Ve always lied a reel mean
feelin' about 'em ; I did n't want ter come nigh 'em,
nor ter hev 'em come nigh me. This woman, here,

KAMONA. 387

she 's ez sweet a creetur 's ever I see ; V ez bound up 'n
thet baby 's yer could ask enuy woman to be ; '11' 's
fur thet man, can't yer see, Jeff, he jest worships the
ground she walks on ? Thet 's a fact, Jeff. I donno 's
ever I see a white man think so much uv a woman ;
come, naow, Jeff, d' yer think yer ever did yerself ? "

Aunt Ei was excited. The experience was, to her,
almost incredible. Her ideas of Indians had been
drawn from newspapers, and from a book or two of
narratives of massacres, and from an occasional sight
of vagabond bands or families they had encountered
in their journey across the plains. Here she found
herself sitting side by side in friendly intercourse
with an Indian man and Indian woman, whose ap
pearance and behavior were attractive ; towards whom
she felt herself singularly drawn.

" I 'm free to confess, Jos," she said, " I would n't
ha' bleeved it. I hain't seen nobody, black, white, or
gray, sence we left hum, I 've took to like these yere
folks. An' they 're real dark ; 's dark 's any nigger
in Tennessee ; 'n' he 's pewer Injun ; her father wuz
white, she sez, but she don't call herself nothin' but
an Injun, the same 's he is. I)' yer notice the way
she looks at him, Jos ? Don't she jest set a store by
thet feller ? 'N' I don't blame her."

Indeed, Jos had noticed. No man was likely to see
Eamona with Alessandro without perceiving the rare
quality of her devotion to him. And now there was
added to this devotion an element of indefinable anx
iety which made its vigilance unceasing. Eamona
feared for Alessandro's reason. She had hardly put
it into words to herself, but the terrible fear dwelt
with her. She felt that another blow would be more
than he could bear.

The storm lasted only a few hours. When it
cleared, the valley was a solid expanse of white, and
the stars shone out as if in an Arctic sky.

388 RAMONA.

"It will be all gone by noon to-morrow," said
Alessandro to Jos, who was dreading the next day.

"Not really!" lie said.

" You will see," said Alessandro. " I have often
known it thus. It is like death while it lasts ; but it
is never long."

The Hyers were on their way to some hot springs
on the north side of the valley. Here they proposed
to camp for three months, to try the waters for Jos.
They had a tent, and all that was necessary for living
in their primitive fashion. Aunt Hi was looking for
ward to the rest with great anticipation; she was
heartily tired of being on the move. Her husband's
anticipations were of a more stirring nature. He had
heard that there was good hunting on San Jacinto
Mountain. When he found that Alessandro knew
the region thoroughly and had been thinking of set-

O O *•/ ' O

tling there, he was rejoiced, and proposed to him to
become his companion and guide in hunting expe
ditions. Eamona grasped eagerly at the suggestion ;
companionship, she was sure, would do Alessandro
good, — companionship, the outdoor life, and the ex
citement of hunting, of which he was fond. This
hot-spring canon was only a short distance from the
Saboba village, of which they had spoken as a pos
sible home ; which she had from the first desired to
try. She no longer had repugnance to the thought
of an Indian village ; she already felt a sense of kin
ship and shelter with any Indian people. She had
become, as Carmena had said, " one of them."

A few days saw the two families settled, — the
Hyers in their tent and wagon, at the hot springs, and
Alessandro and Ramona, with the baby, in a little
adobe house in the Saboba village. The house be
longed to an old Indian woman who, her husband
having died, had gone to live with a daughter, and
was very glad to get a few dollars by renting her own

RAMON A. 389

house. It was a wretched place : one small room,
walled with poorly made adobe bricks, thatched with
tule, no floor, and only one window. When Alessan-
dro heard Eamona say cheerily, " Oh, this will do very
well, when it is repaired a little," his face was con
vulsed, and he turned away ; but he said nothing. It
was the only house to be had in the village, and there
were few better. Two months later, no one would
have known it. Alessandro had had good luck in
hunting. Two fine deerskins covered the earth floor ;
a third was spread over the bedstead ; and the horns,
hung on the walls, served for hooks to hang clothes
upon. The scarlet calico canopy was again set up
over the bed, and the woven cradle, on its red manza-
nita frame, stood near. A small window in the door,
and one more cut in the walls, let in light and air.
On a shelf near one of these windows stood the
little Madonna, again wreathed with vines as in San
Pasquale.

When Aunt Ki first saw the room, after it was thus
arranged, she put both arms akimbo, and stood in
the doorway, her mouth wide open, her eyes full of
wonder. Finally her wonder framed itself in an ejac
ulation : " Wall, I allow yer air fixed up !"

Aunt Pti, at her best estate, had never possessed a
room which had the expression of this poor little mud
hut of Ramona's. She could not understand it. The
more she studied the place, the less she understood it.
On returning to the tent, she said to Jos : " It beats
all ever I see, the way thet Injun woman 's got fixed
up out er nothin'. It ain't no more 'n a hovel, a mud
hovel, Jos, not much bigger 'n this yer tent, fur all
three on 'em, an' the bed an' the stove an' everythin' ;
an' I vow, Jos, she 's fixed it so 't looks jest like a
parlor ! It beats me, it doos. I 'd jest like you to
see it."

And when Jos saw it, and Jeff, they were as full

390 RAMONA.

of wonder as Awnt Ei had been. Dimly they recog
nized the existence of a principle here which had
never entered into their life. They did not know it
by name, and it could not have been either taught

J ' O

transferred, or explained to the good-hearted wife and
mother who had been so many years the affectionate
disorderly genius of their home. But they felt its
charm ; and when, one day, after the return of Ales-
sandro and Jeff from a particularly successful hunt,
the two families had sat down together to a supper
of Eamona's cooking, — stewed venison and arti
chokes, and frijoles with chili, — their wonder was
still greater.

" Ask her if this is Injun style of cooking, Jos,"
said Aunt Ei. " I never thought nothin' o' beans ; but
these air good, 'n' no mistake !"

Eamona laughed. " No ; it is Mexican," she said.
" I learned to cook from an old Mexican woman."

" Wall, I 'd like the receipt on 't ; but 1 allow I
should n't never git the time to fuss with it," said
Aunt Ei ; " but I may 's well git the rule, naow I 'm
here."

Alessandro began to lose some of his gloom. He
had earned money. He had been lifted out of him
self by kindly companionship ; he saw Eamona cheer
ful, the little one sunny ; the sense of home, the
strongest passion Alessandro possessed, next to his
love for Eamona, began again to awake in him. He
began to talk about building a house. He had found
things in the village better than he feared. It was
but a poverty-stricken little handful, to be sure ; still,
they were unmolested ; the valley was large ; their
, stock ran free ; the few white settlers, one at the
upper end and two or three on the south side, had
manifested no disposition to crowd the Indians; the
Eavallo brothers were living on the estate still, and
there was protection in that, Alessandro thought.

RAMONA. 391

And Majella was content. Majella had found friends.
Something, not quite hope, but akin to it, began to
stir in Alessandro's heart. He would build a house ;
Majella should no longer live in this mud hut. But
to his surprise, when he spoke of it, liamona said
no ; they had all they needed, now. Was not Ales-
. sandro comfortable ? She was. It would be wise to
wait longer before building.

Rarnona knew many things that Alessandro did
not. While he had been away on his hunts, she had
had speech with many a one he never saw. She had
gone to the store and post-office several times, to ex
change baskets or lace for flour, and she had heard
talk there which disquieted her. She did not believe
that Saboba was safe. One day she had heard a man
say, " If there is a drought we shall have the devil
to pay with our stock before winter is over." " Yes,"
said another ; " and look at those damned Indians
over there in Saboba, with water running all the
time in their village ! It 's a shame they should
have that spring ! "

Not for worlds would Eamona have told this to
Alessaudro. She kept it locked in her own breast,
but it rankled there like a ceaseless warning and
prophecy. When she reached home that day she went
down to the spring in the centre of the village, and
stood a long time looking at the bubbling water. It
was indeed a priceless treasure ; a long irrigating ditch
led from it down into the bottom, where lay the cul
tivated fields, — many acres in wheat, barley, and
vegetables. Alessandro himself had fields there from
which they would harvest all they needed for the
'horses and their cow all winter, in case pasturage
failed. If the whites took away this water, Saboba
would be ruined. However, as the spring began in
the very heart of the village, they could not take it
without destroying the village. " And the Eavallos

392 RAMONA.

would surely never let that be done," thought Eamona.
" While they live, it will not happen."

It was a sad day for Bamona and Alessandro
when the kindly Hyers pulled up their tent-stakes
and left the valley. Their intended three months had
stretched into six, they had so enjoyed the climate,
and the waters had seemed to do such good to Jos.
But, " We ain't rich folks, yer know, not by a long
ways, we ain't," said Aunt Ei; " an' we Ve got pretty
nigh down to where Jeff an' me 's got to begin airnin'
suthin'. Ef we kin git settled 'n some o' these towns
where there 's carpenterin' to be done. Jeff, he 's a
master hand to thet kind o' work, though yer might n't
think it ; 'n I kin airn right smart at weaviu' ; jest
give me a good carpet-loom, 'n I won't be beholden
to nobody for vittles. I jest du love weavin'. I
donno how I 've contented myself this hull year, or
nigh about a year, without a loom. Jeff, he sez to me
once, sez he, 'Bi, do yer think yer'd be contented
in heaven without yer loom ? ' an' I was free to say
I did n't know 's I should."

" Is it hard ? " cried Bamona. " Could I learn to do
it ? " It was wonderful what progress in understand
ing and speaking English Bamona had made in these
six months. She now understood nearly all that was
said directly to her, though she could not follow gen
eral and confused conversation.

" Wall, 't is, an' 't ain't," said Aunt Bi. " I don't s'pose
I 'm much of a jedge ; fur I can't remember when I
fust learned it. I know I set in the loom to weave
when my feet could n't reach the floor ; an' I don't
remember nothin' about fust learnin' to spool 'n' warp.
I 've tried to teach lots of folks ; an' sum learns quick,
an' some don't never learn ; it 's jest 's 't strikes 'em.
I should think, naow, thet you wuz one o' the kind
could turn yer hand to anythin'. When we get set
tled in San Bernardino, if yer '11 come down thar,

RAMONA. 393

I 11 teach yer all I know, 'n' be glad ter. I donno 's
't 's goin' to be much uv a place for carpet-weavin'
though, anywheres raound 'n this yer country ; not
but what thar's plenty o' rags, but folks seems to be
wearin' 'em ; pooty gen'ral wear, I sh'd say. I 've
seen more cloes on folks' backs hyar, thet wan't no
more '11 fit for carpet-rags, than any place ever I
struck. They 're drefful sheftless lot, these yere Mexi
cans ; 'n' the Injuns is wuss. Naow when I say Injuns,
I don't never mean yeow, yer know thet. Yer ain't
ever seemed to me one mite like an Injun."

" Most of our people have n't had any chance," said
Eamona. " You would n't believe if I were to tell you
what things have been done to them ; how they are
robbed, and cheated, and turned out of their homes."

Then she told the story of Temecula, and of San
Pasquale, in Spanish, to Jos, who translated it with
no loss in the telling. Aunt Ei was aghast ; she
found no words to express her indignation.

" I don't bleeve the Guvvermunt knows anything
about it ! " she said. "Why, they take folks up, 'n'
penetentiarize 'em fur life, back 'n Tennessee, fur
things thet ain 't so bad 's thet ! Somebody ought
ter be sent ter tell 'em 't Washington what 's goin'
on hyar."

" I think it 's the people in Washington that have
done it," said Eamona, sadly. " Is it not in Washing
ton all the laws are made ? "

" I bleeve so ! " said Aunt Ei. " Ain't it, Jos ?
It 's Congress ain't 't, makes the laws ? "

" I bleeve so ! " said Jos. " They make some, at
any rate. I donno 's they make 'em all."

" It is all done by the American law," said Eamo
na, " all these things ; nobody can help himself; for
if anybody goes against the law he has to be killed
or put in prison ; that was what the sheriff told Ales-
sandro, at Temecula. He felt very sorry for the Te-

394 RAMONA.

mecula people, the sheriff did ; but he had to obey the
law himself. Alessandro says there is n 't any help."

Aunt Pd shook her head. She was not convinced.
" I sh'll make a business o' findin' out abaout this
thing yit," she said. " I think yer hain't got the
rights on 't yit. There 's cheatin' somewhere ! "

" It 's all cheating ! " said Earnona ; " but there is n't
any help for it, Aunt Ei. The Americans think it is
no shame to cheat for money."

" I 'in an Ummeriken ! " cried Aunt Ei ; " an' Jeff
Hyer, and Jos ! We 're Ummerikens ! 'n' we would n't
cheat nobody, not ef we knowed it, not out er a dol-
ler. We 're pore, an' I allus expect to be, but we 're
above cheatiri' ; an' I tell you, naow, the Ummeriken
people don't want any o' this cheatin' done, naow !
I 'm going to ask Jeff haow 't is. Why, it 's a burn-
in' shame to any country ! So 't is ! I think some
thing oughter be done abaout it ! I would n't mind
goiu' myself, ef thar wan't anybody else!"

A seed had been sown in Aunt Ei's mind which
was not destined to die for want of soil. She was
hot with shame and anger, and full of impulse to do
something. " I ain't nobody," she said ; " I know thet
well enough, — I ain't nobody nor nothin' ; but I al
low I 've got suthin' to say abaout the country I live
in, 'n' the way things hed oughter be ; or 't least Jeff
hez ; 'n' thet 's the same thing. I tell yer, Jos, I ain't
goin' to rest, nor ter give yeou 'n' yer father no rest
nuther, till yeou find aout what all this yere means
she 's been tellin' us."

But sharper and closer anxieties than any con
nected with rights to lands and homes were pressing
upon Alessandro and Eamona. All summer the baby
had been slowly drooping ; so slowly that it was each
day possible for Eamona to deceive herself, thinking
that there had been since yesterday no loss, perhaps a
little gain; but looking back from the autumn to the

RAMONA. 395

spring, and now from the winter to the autumn, there
was no doubt that she had been steadily going down.
From the day of that terrible chill in the snow-storm,
she had never been quite well, Eamona thought. Be
fore that, she was strong, always strong, always beau
tiful and merry. Now her pinched little face was sad
to see, and sometimes for hours she made a feeble
wailing cry without any apparent cause. All the
simple remedies that Aunt Hi had known, had failed
to touch her disease ; in fact, Aunt Ei from the first
had been baffled in her own mind by the child's
symptoms. Day after day Alessandro knelt by the
cradle, his hands clasped, his face set. Hour after
hour, night and day, indoors and out, he bore her
in his arms, trying to give her relief. Prayer after
prayer to the Virgin, to the saints, liamona had said ;
and candles by the dozen, though money was now
scant, she had burned before the Madonna ; all in
vain. At last she implored Alessandro to go to San
Bernardino and see a doctor. " Find Aunt Ei," she
said ; " she will go with you, with Jos, and talk to
him ; she can make him understand. Tell Aunt Ki
she seems just as she did when they were here, only
weaker and thinner."

Alessandro found Aunt El in a sort of shanty on
the outskirts of San Bernardino. " Not to rights yit,"
she said, — as if she ever would be. Jeff had found
work ; and Jos, too, had been able to do a little on
pleasant days. He had made a loom and put up a
loom-house for his mother, — a floor just large enough
to hold the loom ; rough walls, and a roof; one small
square window, — that was all ; but if Aunt Ei had
been presented with a palace, she would not have been
so well pleased. Already she had woven a rag carpet
for herself, was at work on one for a neighbor, and
had promised as many more as she could do before
spring ; the news of the arrival of a rag-carpet weaver

396 RAMON A.

having gone with despatch all through the lower walks
of San Bernardino life. " I would n't hev bleeved
they hed so many rags besides what they 're wearin',''
said Aunt lii, as sack after sack appeared at her door.
Already, too, Aunt lii had gathered up the threads of
the village life ; in her friendly, impressionable way
she had come into relation with scores of people, and
knew who was who, and what was what, and why,
among them all, far better than many an old resident
of the town.

When she saw Benito galloping up to her door,
she sprang down from her high stool at the loom, and
ran bareheaded to the gate, and before Alessandro had
dismounted, cried : " Ye 're jest the man I wanted ;
I 've been tryin' to 'range it so 's we could go down '11'
see yer, but Jeff could n't leave the job he 's got ; an'
I 'm druv nigh abaout off my feet, 'n' I donno when
we 'd hev fetched it. How 's all ? Why did n't yer
come in ther wagon 'u' fetch 'em 'long ? I 've got
heaps ter tell yer. I allowed yer had n't got the rights
o' all them things. The Guvvermunt ain't on the side
o' the thieves, as yer said. I knowed they could n't be ;
an' they 've jest sent out a man a purpose to look after
things fur yer, — to take keer o' the Injuns 'n' nothin'
else. Thet 's what he 's here fur. He come last month ;
he's a reel nice man. I seen him 'n' talked with him
a spell, last week ; I 'm gwine to make his wife a rag
carpet. 'N' there's a doctor, too, to 'tend ter yer
when ye 're sick, 'n' the Guvvermunt pays him; yer
don't hev to pay nothin' ; 'n' I tell yeow, thet 's a
heap o' savin', to git yer docterin' fur nuthin' !"

Aunt Hi was out of breath. Alessandro had not un
derstood half she said. He looked about helplessly
for Jos. Jos was away. In his broken English he
tried to explain what Kamona had wished her to do.

" Doctor ! Thet 's jest what I 'm tellin' yer ! There 's
one here 's paid by the Guvvermunt to 'tend to all

KAMONA. 397

Injuns thet 's sick. I '11 go 'n' show yer ter his house.
I kin tell him jest how the baby is. P'raps he '11
drive down 'n' see her ! "

Ah ! if he would ! What would Majella say, should
she see him enter the door bringing a doctor !

Luckily Jos returned in time to go with them to
the doctor's house as interpreter. Alessandro was be
wildered. He could not understand this new phase
of affairs. Could it be true ? As they walked along,
he listened with trembling, half-incredulous hope to
Jos's interpretation of Aunt Ri's voluble narrative.

The doctor was in his office. To Aunt Ei's state
ment of Alessandro's errand he listened indifferently,
and then said, " Is he an Agency Indian ? "

" A what ? " exclaimed Aunt Ei.

" Does he belong to the Agency ? Is his name on
the Agency books ? "

" No," said she ; " he never heern uv any Agency
till I wuz tellin' him, jest naow. We knoo him, him
'n' her, over 'n San Jacinto. He lives in Saboba.
He 's never been to San Bernardino sence the Agent
come aout."

" Well, is he going to put his name down on the
books ? " said the doctor, impatiently. " You ought
to have taken him to the Agent first."

" Ain't you the Guvvermunt doctor for all Injuns ? "
asked Aunt Ei, wrathfully. " Thet 's what I heerd."

" Well, my good woman, you hear a great deal, I
expect, that isn't true;" and the doctor laughed
coarsely but not ill-naturedly, Alessandro all the
time studying his face with the scrutiny of one await
ing life and death ; " I am the Agency physician,
and I suppose all the Indians will sooner or later
come in and report themselves to the Agent ; you 'd
better take this man over there. What does he want
now ? "

Aunt Ei began to explain the baby's case. Cutting

398 RAM ON A.

her short, the doctor said, " Yes, yes, I understand.
I 11 give him something that will help her ; " and
going into an inner room, he brought out a bottle
of dark-colored liquid, wrote a few lines of prescrip
tion, and handed it to Alessandro, saying, " That will
do her good, I guess."

" Thanks, Senor, thanks," said Alessandro.

The doctor stared. "That's the first Indian's said
' Thank you ' in this office," he said. " You tell the
Agent you 've brought him a rara avis."

" What 's that, Jos ? " said Aunt Hi, as they went
out.

" Donno ! " said Jos. " I don't like thet man, any
how, mammy. He 's no good."

Alessandro looked at the bottle of medicine like one
in a dream. Would it make the baby well ? Had it
indeed been given to him by that great Government
in Washington ? Was he to be protected now ? Could
this man, wrho had been sent out to take care of
Indians, get back his San Pasquale farm for him ?
Alessandro's brain was in a whirl.

From the doctor's office they went to the Agent's
house. Here, Aunt Ei felt herself more at home.

" I 've brought ye thet Injun I wuz tellin' ye uv,"
she said, with a wave of her hand toward Alessandro.
" We 've ben ter ther doctor's to git some metcen fur
his baby. She 's reel sick, I 'm afeerd."

The Agent sat down at his desk, opened a large
ledger, saying as he did so, "The man's never been
here before, has he ? "

" No," said Aunt Pd.

" What is his name ? "

Jos gave it, and the Agent began to write it in the
book. "Stop him!" cried Alessandro, agitatedly, to
Jos. " Don't let him write, till I know what he puts
my name in his book for ! "

" Wait," said Jos. " He does n't want you to write

RAMONA. 399

his name in that book. He wants to know what it 's
put there for."

Wheeling his chair with a look of suppressed im
patience, yet trying to speak kindly, the Agent said :
" There 's no making these Indians understand any
thing. They seem to think if I have their names in
njy book, it gives me some power over them."

" Wall, don't it ? " said the direct-minded Aunt Ei.
" Hain't yer got any power over 'em ? If yer hain't
got it over them, who have yer got it over ? What
yer goiu' to do for 'em ? "

The Agent laughed in spite of himself. "Well,
Aunt Ei," — she was already " Aunt Ei" to the
Agent's boys, — "that's just the trouble with this
Agency. It is very different from what it would be
if I had all my Indians on a reservation."

Alessandro understood the words " my Indians."
He had heard them before.

" What does he mean by his Indians, Jos ? " he
asked fiercely. " I will not have my name in his
book if it makes me his."

When Jos reluctantly interpreted this, the Agent
lost his temper. " That 's all the use there is trying
to do anything with them ! Let him go, then, if he
does n't want any help from the Government ! "

" Oh, no, no ! " cried Aunt Ei. " Yeow jest explain
it to Jos, an' he '11 make him understand."

Alessandro's face had darkened. All this seemed
to him exceedingly suspicious. Could it be possible
that Aunt Ei and Jos, the first whites except Mr.
Hartsel he had ever trusted, were deceiving him ?
No ; that was impossible. But they themselves might
be deceived. That they were simple and ignorant,
Alessandro well knew. " Let us go ! " he said. " I
do not wish to sign any paper."

" Naow don't be a fool, will yeow ? Yeow ain't sign-
in' a thing ! " said Aunt Ei. " Jos, yeow tell him I say

400 RAMONA.

there ain't anythin' a bindin' him, hevin' his name 'n*
thet book. It 's only so the Agent kin know what
Injuns wants help, 'n' where they air. Ain't thet
so ? " she added, turning to the Agent. " Tell him
he can't hev the Agency doctor, ef he ain't on the
Agency books."

Not have the doctor ? Give up this precious medi
cine which might save his baby's life ? No ! he could
not do that. Majella would say, let the name be
written, rather than that.

" Let him write the name, then," said Alessandro,
doggedly ; but he went out of the room feeling as if
he had put a chain around his neck.

XXIII.

THE medicine did the baby no good. In fact, it
did her harm. She was too feeble for violent
remedies. In a week, Alessandro appeared again at
the Agency doctor's door. This time he had come
with a request which to his mind seemed not unrea
sonable. He had brought Baba for the doctor to ride.
Could the doctor then refuse to go to Saboba ? Baba
would carry him there in three hours, and it would
be like a cradle all the way. Alessandro's name was
in the Agency books. It was for this he had written
it, — for this and nothing else, — to save the baby's
life. Having thus enrolled himself as one of the
Agency Indians, he had a claim on this the Agency
doctor. And that his application might be all in due
form, he took with him the Agency interpreter. He
had had a misgiving, before, that Aunt Hi's kindly
volubility had not been well timed. Not one un
necessary word, was Alessandro's motto.

To say that the Agency doctor was astonished at
being requested to ride thirty miles to prescribe for
an ailing Indian baby, would be a mild statement of
the doctor's emotion. He could hardly keep from
laughing, when it was made clear to him that this
was what the Indian father expected.

" Good Lord ! " he said, turning to a crony who
chanced to be lounging in the office. " Listen to
that beggar, will you ? I wonder what he thinks the
Government pays me a year for doctoring Indians ! "

Alessandro listened so closely it attracted the doc
tor's attention. " Do you understand English ? " ha
asked sharply.

26

402 RAMONA.

" A very little, Senor," replied Alessandro.

The doctor would be more careful in his speech,
then. But he made it most emphatically clear that
the thing Alessandro had asked was not only out of
the question, but preposterous. Alessandro pleaded
For the child's sake he could do it. The horse was
at the door; there was no such horse in San Ber-'
nardino County ; he went like the wind, and one
would not know he was in motion, it was so easy.
Would not the doctor come down and look at. the
horse ? Then he would see what it would be like to
ride him.

" Oh, I 've seen plenty of your Indian ponies," said
the doctor. " I know they can run."

Alessandro lingered. He could not give up this
last hope. The tears came into his eyes. " It is
our only child, Senor," he said. "It will take
you but six hours in all. My wife counts the mo
ments till you come ! If the child dies, she will
die."

" Xo ! no ! " The doctor was weary of being im
portuned. " Tell the man it is impossible ! I 'd soon
have my hands full, if I began to go about the coun
try this way. They'd be sending for me down to
Agua Caliente next, and bringing up their ponies to
carry me."

" He will not go ? " asked Alessandro.

The interpreter shook his head. " He cannot," he
said.

Without a word Alessandro left the room. Pres
ently he returned. "Ask him if he will come for
money?" he said. "I have gold at home. I will
pay him, what the white men pay him."

" Tell him no man of any color could pay me for
going sixty miles ! " said the doctor.

And Alessaudro departed again, walking so slowly,
however, that he heard the coarse laugh, and the

RAMONA. 403

words, " Gold ! Looked like it, did n't he?" which fol
lowed his departure from the room.

When Ramona saw him returning alone, she wrung
her hands. Her heart seemed breaking. The baby
had lain in a sort of stupor since noon ; she was
plainly worse, and Ramona had been going from the
door to the cradle, from the cradle to the door, for an
hour, looking each moment for the hoped-for aid. It
had not once crossed her mind that the doctor would
not come. She had accepted in much fuller faith
than Alessandro the account of the appointment by
the Government of these two men to look after the
Indians' interests. What else could their coming
mean, except that, at last, the Indians were to have
justice ? She thought, in her simplicity, that the
doctor must have died, since Alessandro was riding
home alone.

" He would not come ! " said Alessandro, as he
threw himself off his horse, wearily.

" Would not ! " cried Ramona. " Would not ! Did
you not say the Government had sent him to be the
doctor for Indians ? "

" That was what they said," he replied. " You see
it is a lie, like the rest ! But I offered him gold,
and he would not come then. The child must die,
Majella!"

" She shall not die ! " cried Ramona. " We will
carry her to him ! " The thought struck them both
as an inspiration. Why had they not thought of it
before ? " You can fasten the cradle on Baba's back,
and he will go so gently, she will think it is but
play ; and I will walk by her side, or you, all the
way ! " she continued. " And we can sleep at Aunt
Ri's house. Oh, why, why did we not do it before ?
Early in the morning we will start."

All through the night they sat watching the little
creature. If they had ever seen death, they would

404 RAMONA.

have known that there was no hope for the child.
But how should Eamona and Alessandro know ?

The sun rose bright and warm. Before it was
up, the cradle was ready, ingeniously strapped on
Baba's back. When the baby was placed in it, she
smiled. " The first smile she has given for days,"
cried Eamona. " Oh, the air itself will do good
to her! Let me walk by her first! Come, Baba!
Dear Baba ! " and Eamona stepped almost joyfully
by the horse's side, Alessandro riding Benito.
As they paced along, their eyes never leaving the
baby's face, Eamona said, in a low tone, " Ales
sandro, I am almost afraid to tell you what I have
done. I took the little Jesus out of the Madonna's
arms and hid it ! Did you never hear, that if you
do that, the Madonna will grant you anything, to
get him back again in her arms? Did you ever
hear of it ? "

" Never ! " exclaimed Alessandro, with horror in
his tone. " Never, Majella ! How dared you ? "

" I dare anything now ! " said Eamona. " I have
been thinking to do it for some days, and to tell her
she could not have him any more till she gave
me back the baby well and strong ; but I knew I
could not have courage to sit and look at her all
lonely without him in her arms, so I did not do it.
But now we are to be away, I -thought, that is the
time ; and I told her, ' When we come back with our
baby well, you shall have your little Jesus again, too ;
now, Holy Mother, you go with us, and make the doc
tor cure our baby ! ' Oh, I have heard, many times,
women tell the Senora they had done this, and al
ways they got what they wanted. Never will she
let the Jesus be out of her arms more than three
weeks before she will grant any prayer one can make.
It was that way she brought you to me, Alessandro.
I never before told you. I was afraid. I think she

RAMONA. 405

had brought you sooner, but I could keep the little
Jesus hid from her only at night. In the day I could
not, because the Senora would see. So she did
not miss him so much; else she had brought you.
quicker."

" But, Majella," said the logical Alessandro, " itf
was because I could not leave my father that I did
not come. As soon as he was buried, I came."

" If it had not been for the Virgin, you would never
have come at all," said Ramona, confidently.

For the first hour of this sad journey it seemed as
if the child were really rallying; the air, the sun
light, the novel motion, the smiling mother by her
side, the big black horses she had already learned to
love, all roused her to an animation she had not
shown for days. But it was only the last flicker of
the expiring flame. The eyes drooped, closed ; a
strange pallor came over the face. Alessandro
saw it first. He was now walking, Eamona riding
Benito. " Majella ! " he cried, in a tone which told
her all.

In a second she was at the baby's side, with a cry
which smote the dying child's consciousness. Once
more the eyelids lifted ; she knew her mother ; a
swift spasm shook the little frame ; a convulsion as
of agony swept over the face, then it was at peace.
Majella's shrieks were heart-rending. Fiercely she
put Alessandro away from her, as he strove to caress
her. She stretched her arms up towards the sky.
" I have killed her ! 1 have killed her ! " she cried.
" Oh, let me die ! "

Slowly Alessandro turned Baba's head homeward
again.

" Oh, give her to me ! Let her lie on my breast ! I
will hold her warm ! " gasped Eamona.

Silently Alessandro laid the body in her arms.
He had not spoken since his first cry of alarm. If

406 RAMON A.

Eamona had looked at him, she would have forgot
ten her grief for her dead child. Alessandro's face
seemed turned to stone.

When they reached the house, Eamona, laying the
child on the bed, ran hastily to a corner of the room,
and lifting the deerskin, drew from its hiding-place
the little wooden Jesus. With tears streaming, she
laid it again in the Madonna's arms, and flinging her
self on her knees, sobbed out prayers for forgiveness.
Alessandro stood at the foot of the bed, his arms
folded, his eyes riveted on the child. Soon he went
out, still without speaking. Presently Eamona heard
the sound of a saw. She groaned aloud, and her tears
flowed faster : Alessandro was making the baby's
coffin. Mechanically she rose, and, moving like one
half paralyzed, she dressed the little one in fresh
white clothes for the burial ; then laying her in the
cradle, she spread over it the beautiful lace-wrought
altar-cloth. As she adjusted its folds, her mind was
carried back to the time when she embroidered it,
sitting on the Senora's veranda ; the song of the
finches, the linnets ; the voice and smile of Felipe ;
Alessandro sitting on the steps, drawing divine music
from his violin. Was that she, — that girl who sat
there weaving the fine threads in the beautiful altar-
cloth ? AVas it a hundred years ago ? Was it an
other world ? Was it Alessandro yonder, driving
those nails into a coffin ? How the blows rang, louder
and louder ! The air seemed deafening full of sound.
With her hands pressed to her temples, Eamona sank
to the floor. A merciful unconsciousness set her free,
(for an interval, from her anguish.

When she opened her eyes, she was lying on the
bed. Alessandro had lifted her and laid her there,
making no effort to rouse her. He thought she
would die too ; and even that thought did not stir
him from his lethargy. When she opened her eyes,

RAMONA. 407

and looked at him, he did not speak. She closed
them. He did not move. Presently she opened
them again. "I heard you out there," she said.

" Yes," he replied. " It is done." And he pointed
to a little box of rough boards by the side of the
cradle.

" Is Majella ready to go to the mountain now ? "
he asked.

" Yes, Alessandro, I am ready," she said.

" We will hide forever," he said.

" It makes no difference," she replied.

The Saboba women did not know what to think of
Eamona now. She had never come into sympathetic
relation with them, as she had with the women of
San Pasquale. Her intimacy with the Hyers had
been a barrier the Saboba people could not surmount.
No one could be on such terms with whites, and be
at heart an Indian, they thought ; so they held aloof
from Eamona. But now in her bereavement they
gathered round her. They wept at sight of the dead
baby's face, lying in its tiny white coffin. Eamona
had covered the box with white cloth, and the lace
altar-cloth thrown over it fell in folds to the floor.
" Why does not this mother weep ? Is she like the
whites, who have no heart ? " said the Saboba mothers
among themselves ; and they were embarrassed before
her, and knew not what to say. Eamona perceived
it, but had no life in her to speak to them. Benumb
ing terrors, which were worse than her grief, were
crowding Eamona's heart now. She had offended the
Virgin ; she had committed a blasphemy: in one short
;hour the Virgin had punished her, had smitten her
child dead before her eyes. And now Alessandro was
going mad ; hour by hour Eamona fancied she saw
changes in him. What form would the Virgin's ven
geance take next ? Would she let Alessandro become
a raging madman, and finally kill both himself and

408 RAMONA.

her ? That seemed to Eamona the most probable fate
in store for them. When the funeral was over, and
they returned to their desolate home, at the sight of
the empty cradle llamona broke down.

" Oh, take me away, Alessandro ! Anywhere !
I don't care where ! anywhere, so it is not here ! "
she cried.

" Would Majella be afraid, now, on the high moun
tain, the place I told her of ? " he said.

" No ! " she replied earnestly. " No ! I am afraid
of nothing ! Only take me away ! "

A gleam of wild delight flitted across Alessandro's
face. " It is well," he said. " My Majella, we will
go to the mountain ; we will be safe there."

The same fierce restlessness which took possession
of him at San Pasquale again showed itself in his
every act. His mind was unceasingly at work, plan
ning the details of their move and of the new life. He
mentioned them one after another to Kamona. They
could not take both horses ; feed would be scanty
there, and there would be no need of two horses.
The cow also they must give up. Alessaudro would
kill her, and the meat, dried, would last them for a
long time. The wagon he hoped he could sell ; and
he would buy a few sheep ; sheep and goats could live
•well in these heights to which they were going. Safe
at last ! Oh, yes, very safe ; not only against whites,
who. because the little valley was so small and bare,
would not desire it, but against Indians also. For the
Indians, silly things, had a terror of the upper heights
of San Jacinto ; they believed the Devil lived there,
and money would not hire one of the Saboba Indians
to go so high as this valley which Alessandro had dis
covered. Fiercely he gloated over each one of these
features of safety in their hiding-place. " The first
time I saw it, Majella. — I believe the saints led me
there, — I said, it is a hiding-place. And then I never

RAMON A. 409

thought I would be in want of such, — of a place to
keep my Majella safe ! safe ! Oh, my Majel ! " And he
clasped her to his breast with a terrifying passion.

For an Indian to sell a horse arid wagon in the San
Jacinto valley was not an easy thing, unless he would
give them away. Alessandro had hard work to give
civil answers to the men who wished to buy Benito
and the wagon for quarter of their value. He knew
they would not have dared to so much as name such
prices to a white man. Finally Eamona, who had
felt unconquerable misgivings as to the wisdom of
thus irrevocably parting from their most valuable
possessions, persuaded him to take both horses and
wagon to San Bernardino, and offer them to the Hyers
to use for the winter.

It would be just the work for Jos, to keep him in
the open air, if he could get teaming to do ; she was
sure he would be thankful for the chance. " He is as
fond of the horses as we are ourselves, Alessandro,"
she said. " They would be well cared for ; and then,
if we did not like living on the mountain, we could
have the horses and wagon again when we came
down, or Jos could sell them for us in San Bernar
dino. Nobody could see Benito and Baba working
together, and not want them."

" Majella is wiser than the dove ! " cried Alessan
dro. " She has seen what is the best thing to do. I
will take them."

When he was ready to set off, he implored Eamona
to go with him ; but with a look of horror she refused.
" Never," she cried, " one step on that accursed road !
I will never go on that road again unless it is to be
carried, as we brought her, dead."

Neither did Ramona wish to see Aunt Hi. Her
sympathy would be intolerable, spite of all its affec
tionate kindliness. " Tell her I love her," she said,
" but I do not want to see a human being yet > next

410 RAMON A.

year perhaps we will go down, — if there is any othei
way besides that road."

Aunt Ri was deeply grieved. She could not under
stand Ilarnona's feeling. It rankled deep. " I allow
I 'd never hev bleeved it uv her, never," she said. " I
shan't never think she wuz quite right 'n her head,
to do 't ! I allow we shan't never set eyes on ter her,
Jos. I 've got jest thet feelin' abaout it. Tears like
she 'd gone klar out 'er this yer world inter anuther."

The majestic bulwark of San Jacinto Mountain
looms in the southern horizon of the San Bernardino
valley. It was in full sight from the door of the
little shanty in which Aunt Ri's carpet-loom stood.
As she sat there hour after hour, sometimes seven
hours to the day, working the heavy treadle, and
slipping the shuttle back and forth, she gazed with
tender yearnings at the solemn, shining summit.
"When sunset colors smote it, it glowed like fire ; on
cloudy days, it was lost in the clouds.

" 'Pears like 't was next door to heaven, up there,
Jos," Aunt Ri would say. " I can't tell yer the feelin'
't comes over me, to look up t' it, ever sence I knowed
she wuz there. 'T shines enuf to put yer eyes aout,
sometimes ; I allow 't ain't so light 's thet when you
air into 't ; 't can't be ; ther could n't nobody Stan1
it, ef 't wuz. I allow 't must be like bein' dead,
Jos, don't yer think so, to be livin' thar? He sed
ther could n't nobody git to 'em. Nobody ever seed
the place but hisself. He found it a huntin'. Thar 's
water thar, 'n' thet 's abaout all thar is, 's fur 's I
cud make aout ; I allow we shan't never see her
agin."

The horses and the wagon were indeed a godsend
to Jos. It was the very thing he had been longing
for ; the only sort of work he was as yet strong
enough to 'do, and there was plenty of it to be had in
San Bernardino. But the purchase of a wagon suita-

RAMON A. 411

Tble for the purpose was at present out of their power ;
the utmost Aunt Ei bad hoped to accomplish was to
have, at the end of a year, a sufficient sum laid up
to buy one. They had tried in vain to exchange
their heavy emigrant-wagon for one suitable for
light work. " Tears like I 'd die o' sharne," said
Aunt Ei, " sometimes when I ketch myself er
thinkin' what luck ct 's ben to Jos, er gettin' thet
Injun's hosses an' wag-gin. But ef Jos keeps on,
airnin' ez much ez he hez so fur, he 's goin' ter pay
the Injun part on % when he cums. I allow ter Jos
't ain't no more 'n fair. Why, them hosses, they 11
dew good tew days' work 'n one. I never see sech
hosses ; 'n' they 're jest like kittens ; they 've ben
drefful pets, I allow. I know she set all the world,
'u' more tew, by thet nigh one. He wuz hern, ever
sence she wuz a child. Pore thing, — 'pears like
she hed n't hed no chance ! "

Alessandro had put off, from day to day, the killing
of the cow. It went hard with him to slaughter the
faithful creature, who knew him, and came towards
him at the first sound of his voice. He had pastured
her, since the baby died, in a canon about three miles
northeast of the village, — a lovely green canon with
oak-trees and a running brook. It was here that he
had thought of building his house if they had stayed
in Saboba. But Alessaudro laughed bitterly to him
self now, as he recalled that dream. Already the
news had come to Saboba that a company had been
formed for the settling up of the San Jacinto valley ;
the Eavallo brothers had sold to this company a large
grant of land. The white ranchmen in the valley
were all fencing in their lands ; no more free running
of stock. The Saboba people were too poor to build
miles of fencing; they must soon give up keeping
stock ; and the next thing would be that they would
be driven out, like the people of Temecula. It was

412 RAMON A.

none too soon that he had persuaded Majella to flee
to the mountain. There, at least, they could live
and die in peace, — a poverty-stricken life, and the
loneliest of deaths ; but they would have each other.
It was well the baby had died ; she was saved all
this misery. By the time she had grown to be a
woman, if she had lived, there would be no place in
all the country where an Indian could find refuge.
Brooding over such thoughts as these, Alessandro went
up into the caiion one morning. It must be done.
Everything was ready for their move ; it would take
many days to carry even their few possessions up
the steep mountain trail to their new home ; the
pony which had replaced Benito and Baba could not
carry a heavy load. While this was being done, Ra-
mona would dry the beef which would be their sup
ply of meat for many months. Then they would go.

At noon he came down with the first load of the
meat, and Ramona began cutting it into long strips,
as is the Mexican fashion of drying. Alessandro
returned for the remainder. Early in the afternoon,
as Ramona went to and fro about her work, she
saw a group of horsemen riding from house to house,
in the upper part of the village ; women came run
ning out excitedly from each house as the horse
men left it ; finally one of them darted swiftly up
the hill to Ramona. " Hide it ! hide it 1 " she cried,
breathless ; " hide the meat ! It is Merrill's men,
from the end of the valley. They have lost a steer,
and they say we stole it. They found the place, with
blood on it, where it was killed; and they say we
did it. Oh, hide the meat ! They took all that Fer
nando had ; and it was his own, that he bought ; he
did not know anything about their steer ! "

" I shall not hide it ! " cried Ramona, indig
nantly. "It is our own cow. Alessandro killed it
to-day."

RAM ON A. 413

" They won't believe you ! " said the woman, in
distress. " They '11 take it all away. Oh, hide some
of it ! " And she dragged a part of it across the
floor, and threw it under the bed, Ramona standing
by, stupefied.

Before she had spoken again, the forms of the gal
loping riders darkened the doorway ; the foremost of
them, leaping off his horse, exclaimed : " By God !
here 's the rest of it. If they ain't the damnedest
impudent thieves ! Look at this woman, cutting it
up ! Put that down, will you ? We 11 save you the
trouble of dryin' our meat for us, besides killin' it !

Fork over, now, every bit you 've got, you ."

And he called Ramona by a vile epithet.

Every drop of blood left Ramona's face. Her eyes
blazed, and she came forward with the knife uplifted
in her hand. " Out of my house, you dogs of the
white color ! " she said. " This meat is our own ; my
husband killed the creature but this morning."

Her tone and bearing surprised them. There were
six of the men, and they had all swarmed into the
little room.

" I say, Merrill," said one of them, " hold on ; the
squaw says her husband only jest killed it to-day.
It might be theirs."

Ramona turned on him like lightning. " Are you
liars, you all," she cried, "that you think I lie ? I
tell you the meat is ours ; and there is not an Indian
in this village would steal cattle ! "

A derisive shout of laughter from all the men
greeted this speech ; and at that second, the leader,
seeing the mark of blood where the Indian woman
had dragged the meat across the ground, sprang to
the bed, and lifting the deerskin, pointed with a sneer
to the beef hidden there. " Perhaps, when you know
Injuns 's well 's I do," he said, "you won't be for
belie vin' all they say ! What 's she got it hid under

414 RAMONA.

the bed for, if it was their own cow ? " and he
stooped to drag the meat out. " Give us a hand
here, Jake ! "

" If you touch it, I will kill you ! " cried Ramona,
beside herself with rage ; and she sprang between the
men, her uplifted knife gleaming.

" Hoity-toity ! " cried Jake, stepping back ; " that 's '
a handsome squaw when she 's mad ! Say, boys,
let 's leave her some of the meat. She was n't to
blame; of course, she believes what her husband
told her."

" You go to grass for a soft-head, you Jake ! "
muttered Merrill, as he dragged the meat out from
beneath the bed.

"What is all this?" said a deep voice in the door;
and Ramona, turning, with a glad cry, saw Alessan-
dro standing there, looking on, with an expression
which, even in her own terror and indignation, gave
her a sense of dread, it was so icily defiant. He had
his hand on his gun. " What is all this ? " he re
peated. He knew very well.

" It's that Temecula man," said one of the men, in
a low tone, to Merrill. " If I 'd known 't was his
house, I would n't have let you come here. You 're
up the wrong tree, sure ! "

Merrill dropped the meat he was dragging over the
floor, and turned to confront Alessandro's eyes. His
countenance fell. Even he saw that he had made a
mistake. He began to speak. Alessandro interrupted
him. Alessandro could speak forcibly in Spanish.
Pointing to his pony, which stood at the door with a
package on its back, the remainder of the meat rolled
in the hide, he said: " There is the remainder of
the beef. I killed the creature this morning, in the
canon. I will take Senor Merrill to the place, if he
wishes it. Senor Merrill's steer was killed down in
the willows yonder, yesterday."

RAMON A. 415

" That 's so ! " cried the meu, gathering around him.
" How did you know ? Who did it ? "

Alessandro made no reply. He was looking at
Ramona. She had flung her shawl over her head, as
the other woman had done, and the two were cower
ing in the corner, their faces turned away. Eamoua
dared not look on ; she felt sure Alessandro would
kill some one. But this was not the type of outrage
that roused Alessandro to dangerous wrath. He even
felt a certain enjoyment in the discomfiture of the
self-constituted posse of searchers for stolen goods. To
all their questions in regard to the stolen steer, he
maintained silence. He would not open his lips.
At last, angry, ashamed, with a volley of coarse oaths
at him for his obstinacy, they rode away. Alessandro
went to Eamona's side. She was trembling. Her
hands were like ice.

" Let us go to the mountain to-night ! " she gasped.
" Take me where I need never see a white face
again ! "

A melancholy joy gleamed in Alessandro's eyes.
Eamona, at last, felt as he did.

" I would not dare to leave Majella there alone,
while there is no house," he said; "and I must go
and come many times, before all the things can be
carried."

"It will be less danger there than here, Alessandro,"
said Ramona, bursting into violent weeping as she
recalled the insolent leer with which the man Jake
had looked at her. " Oh ! I cannot stay here ! "

"It will not be many days, my Majel. I will bor
row Fernando's pony, to take double at once ; then we
can go sooner."

" Who was it stole that man's steer ? " said Ramona.
" Why did you not tell them ? They looked as if
they would kill you."

" It was that Mexican that lives in the bottom,

416 RAMON A

Jose* Castro. I myself came on him, cutting the
steer up. He said it was his ; but I knew very well,
by the way he spoke, he was lying. But why should
I tell ? They think only Indians will steal cattle. I
can tell them, the Mexicans steal more."
, " I told them there was not an Indian in this
village would steal cattle," said Ramona, indig
nantly.

" That was not true, Majella," replied Alessandro,
sadly. " When they are very hungry, they will steal
a heifer or steer. They lose many themselves, and
they say it is not so much harm to take one when
they can get it. This man Merrill, they say, branded
twenty steers for his own, last spring, when he knew
they were Saboba cattle ! "

" Why did they not make him give them up ? "
cried Eamona.

"Did not Majella see to-day why they can do
nothing ? There is no help for us, Majella, only to
hide ; that is all we can do ! "

A new terror had entered into Ramona's life ; she
dared not tell it to Alessandro ; she hardly put it
into words in her thoughts. But she was haunted by
the face of the man Jake, as by a vision of evil, and
on one pretext and another she contrived to secure the
presence of someone of the Indian women in her house
whenever Alessandro was away. Every day she saw
the man riding past. Once he had galloped up to the
open door, looked in, spoken in a friendly way to her,
and ridden on. Ramona's instinct was right. Jake
was merely biding his time. He had made up his
mind to settle in the San Jacinto valley, at least for
a few years, and he wished to have an Indian woman
come to live with him and keep his house. Over
in Santa Ysabel, his brother had lived in that way
with an Indian mistress for three years ; and when
he sold out, and left Santa Ysabel, he had given the

RAMONA. 417

woman a hundred dollars and a little house for her
self and her child. And she was not only satisfied, but
held herself, in consequence of this temporary connec
tion with a white man, much above her Indian rela
tives and friends. When an Indian man had wished
to marry her, she had replied scornfully that she
would never marry an Indian ; she might marry an
other white man, but an Indian, — never. Nobody
had held his brother in any less esteem for this connec
tion ; it was quite the way in the country. And if
Jake could induce this handsomest squaw he had ever
seen, to come and live with him in a similar fashion,
he would consider himself a lucky man, and also think
he was doing a good thing for the squaw. It was all
very clear and simple in his mind ; and when, seeing
Ramona walking alone in the village one morning, he
overtook her, and walking by her side began to sound
her on the subject, he had small misgivings as to the
result. Ramona trembled as he approached her. She
walked faster, and would not look at him ; but he, in
his ignorance, misinterpreted these signs egregiously.

" Are you married to your husband ? " he finally
said. " It is but a poor place he gives you to live in.
If you will come and live with me, you shall have the
best house in the valley, as good as the Ravallos' ;
and — " Jake did not finish his sentence. With a cry
which haunted his memory for years, Ramona sprang
from his side as if to run ; then, halting suddenly,
she faced him, her eyes like javelins, her breath com
ing fast. " Beast ! " she said, and spat towards him ;
then turned and fled to the nearest house, where she
sank on the floor and burst into tears, saying that the
man below there in the road had been rude to her.
Yes, the women said, he was a bad man ; they all
knew it. Of this Ramona said no word to Alessan-
dro. She dared not; she believed he would kill
Jake.

27

418 RAMONA.

When the furious Jake confided to his friend Mer
rill his repulse, and the indignity accompanying it,
Merrill only laughed at him, and said : " I could have
told you better than to try that woman. She's mar
ried, fast enough. There 's plenty you can get, though,
if you want 'em. They 're first-rate about a house,
and jest 's faithful 's dogs. You can trust 'em with
every dollar you 've got."

From this day, Ramona never knew an instant's
peace or rest till she stood on the rim of the refuge
valley, high on San Jacinto. Then, gazing around,
looking up at the lofty piunacles above, which seemed
to pierce the sky, looking down upon the world, — it
seemed the whole world, so limitless it stretched away
at her feet, — feeling that infinite unspeakable sense
of nearness to Heaven, remoteness from earth which
comes only on mountain heights, she drew in a long
breatli of delight, and cried : " At last ! at last, Ales-
sandro ! Here we are safe ! This is freedom ! This is

joy!"

" Can Majella be content ? " he asked.

" I can almost be glad, Alessandro ! " she cried, in
spired by the glorious scene. " I dreamed not it was
like this ! "

It was a wondrous valley. The mountain seemed
to have been cleft to make it. It lay near midway to
the top, and ran transversely on the mountain's side,
its western or southwestern end being many feet-
lower than the eastern. Both the upper and lower
ends were closed by piles of rocks and tangled fallen
trees ; the rocky summit of the mountain itself made
the southern wall ; the northern was a spur, or ridge,
nearly vertical, and covered thick with pine-trees. A
man might roam years on the mountain and not find
this cleft. At the upper end gushed out a crystal
spring, which trickled rather than ran, in a bed of
marshy green, the entire length of the valley, disap-

RAMON A. 419

peared in the rocks at the lower end, and came out
no more ; many times Alessandro had searched for it
lower down, but could find no trace of it. During
the summer, when he was hunting with Jeff, he had
several times climbed the wall and descended it on
the inner side, to see if the rivulet still ran ; and, to his
joy, had found it the same in July as in January.
Drought could not harm it, then. What salvation in
such a spring ! And the water was pure and sweet as
if it came from the skies.

A short distance off was another ridge or spur of
the mountain, widening out into almost a plateau.
This was covered with acorn-bearing oaks ; and un
der them were flat stones worn into hollows, where
bygone generations of Indians had ground the nuts
into meal. Generations long bygone indeed, for it
was not in the memory of the oldest now living, that
Indians had ventured so high up as this on San
Jacinto. It was held to be certain death to climb to
its summit, and foolhardy in the extreme to go far up
its sides.

There was exhilaration in the place. It brought
healing to both Alessandro and Earnona. Even the
bitter grief for the baby's death was soothed. She did
not seem so far off, since they had come so much nearer
to the sky. They lived at first in a tent ; no time
to build a house, till the wheat and vegetables were
planted. Alessandro was surprised, when he came
to the ploughing, to see how much good land he
had. The valley thrust itself, in inlets and coves,
into the very rocks of its southern wall ; lovely shel
tered nooks these were, where he hated to wound the
soft, flower-filled sward with his plough. As soon
as the planting was done, he began to fell trees for
the house. No mournful gray adobe this time, but
walls of hewn pine, with half the bark left on ; alter
nate yellow and brown, as gay as if glad hearts had

420 RAMON A.

devised it. The roof, of thatch, tule, and yucca-stalks,
double laid and thick, was carried out several feet in
front of the house, making a sort of bower-like ve
randa, supported by young fir-tree stems, left rough.
Once more Ramona would sit under a thatch witli
birds'-nests in it. A little corral for the sheep, and
a rough shed for the pony, and the home was com
plete : far the prettiest home they had ever had. And
here, in the sunny veranda, when autumn came, sat
Ramona, plaiting out of fragrant willow twigs a cra
dle. The one over which she had wept such bitter
tears in the valley, they had burned the night before
they left their Saboba home. It was in early autumn
she sat plaiting this cradle. The ground around was
strewn with wild grapes drying ; the bees were feast
ing on them in such clouds that Ramona rose fre
quently from her work to drive them away, saying,
as she did so, " Good bees, make our honey from
something else ; we gain nothing if you drain our
grapes for it ; we want these grapes for the winter ; "
and as she spoke, her imagination sped fleetly forward
to the winter. The Virgin must have forgiven her,
to give her again the joy of a child in her arms. Ay,
a joy ! Spite of poverty, spite of danger, spite of all
that cruelty and oppression could do, it would still
be a joy to hold her child in her arms.

The baby was born before winter came. An old
Indian woman, the same whose house they had hived
in Saboba, had come up to live with Ramona. She
was friendless now, her daughter having died, and
she thankfully came to be as a mother to Ramona.
She was ignorant and feeble ; but Ramona saw in
her always the picture of what her own mother
might perchance be, wandering, suffering, she knew
not what or where ; and her yearning, filial instinct
found sad pleasure in caring for this lonely, childless,
aged one.

RAMONA, 421

Eamona was alone with her on the mountain at the
time of the baby's birth. Alessandro had gone to the
valley, to be gone two days ; but Eamona felt no fear.
When Alessandro returned, and she laid the child in
his arms, she said with a smile, radiant once more,
like the old smiles, " See, beloved ! The Virgin has
forgiven me ; she has given us a daughter again ! "

But Alessaudro did not smile. Looking scrutiniz-
ingly into the baby's face, he sighed, and said, " Alas,
Majella, her eyes are like mine, not yours ! "

" I am glad of it," cried Eamona. " I was glad the
first minute I saw it."

He shook his head. " It is an ill fate to have the
eyes of Alessandro," he said. " They look ever on
woe ; " and he laid the baby back on Eamona's breast,
and stood gazing sadly at her.

" Dear Alessandro," said Eamona, " it is a sin to
always mourn. Father Salvierderra said if we re
pined under our crosses, then a heavier cross would
be laid on us. Worse things would come."

" Yes," he said. " That is true. Worse things
will come." And he walked away, with his head
sunk deep on his breast.

XXIV.

HHHERE was no real healing for Alessandro. His
JL hurts had gone too deep. His passionate heart,
ever secretly brooding on the wrongs he had borne,
the hopeless outlook for his people in the future, and
most of all on the probable destitution and suffering
in store for Kamona, consumed itself as by hidden
fires. Speech, complaint, active antagonism, might
have saved him; but all these were foreign to his
self-contained, reticent, repressed nature. Slowly, so
slowly that Kamona could not tell on what hour or
what day her terrible fears first changed to an even
more terrible certainty, his brain gave way, and
the thing, in dread of which he had cried out the
morning they left San Pasquale, came upon him.
Strangely enough, and mercifully, now that it had
really come, he did not know it. He knew that he
suddenly came to his consciousness sometimes, and
discovered himself in strange and unexplained situa
tions ; had no recollection of what had happened for an
interval of time, longer or shorter. But he thought
it was only a sort of sickness ; he did not know that
during those intervals his acts were the acts of a mad
man ; never violent, aggressive, or harmful to any one ;
never destructive. It was piteous to see how in these
intervals his delusions were always shaped by the bit
terest experiences of his life. Sometimes he fancied
that the Americans were pursuing him, or that they
were carrying off Kamona, and he was pursuing
them. At such times he would run with maniac
swiftness for hours, till he fell exhausted on the

RAMON A. 423

ground, and slowly regained true consciousness by
exhaustion. At other times he believed he owned
vast flocks and herds ; would enter any enclosure he
saw, where there were sheep or cattle, go about among
them, speak of them to passers-by as his own. Some
times he would try to drive them away ; but on bein«-
remonstrated with, would bewilderedly give up the at
tempt. Once he suddenly found himself in the road
driving a small flock of goats, whose he knew not, nor
whence he got them. Sitting down by the roadside,
he buried his head in his hands. " What has happened
to iny memory ? " he said. " I must be ill of a fever ! "
As he sat there, the goats, of their own accord, turned
and trotted back into a corral near by, the owner
of which stood, laughing, on his door-sill ; and when
Alessandro came up, said good-naturedly, " All right,
Alessandro ! I saw you driving off my goats, but I
thought you 'd bring 'em back."

Everybody in the valley knew him, and knew his
condition. It did not interfere with his capacity as
a worker, for the greater part of the time. He was
one of the best shearers in the region, the best horse-
breaker ; and his services were always in demand,
spite of the risk there was of his having at any time
one of these attacks of wandering. His absences
were a great grief to Ramona, not only from the lone
liness in which it left her, but from the anxiety she
felt lest his mental disorder might at any time take a
more violent and dangerous shape. This anxiety was
all the more harrowing because she must keep it
locked in her own breast, her wise and loving instinct
telling her that nothing could be more fatal to him
than the knowledge of his real condition. More than
once he reached home, breathless, panting, the sweat
rolling off his face, crying aloud, "The Americans
have found us out, Majella ! They were on the trail \
I baffled them. I came up another way." At such

424 RAMON A.

times she would soothe him like a child ; persuade
him to lie down and rest ; and when he waked and
wondered why he was so tired, she would say, " You
were all out of breath when you came in, dear. You
must not climb so fast; it is foolish to tire one's
self so."

In these days Ramona began to think earnestly of
Felipe. She believed Alessandro might be cured. A
wise doctor could surely do something for him. If
Felipe knew what sore straits she was in, Felipe would
help her. But how could she reach Felipe without the
Seiiora's knowing it ? And, still more, how could she
send a letter to Felipe without Alessandro's knowing
what she had written ? Karnona was as helpless in her
freedom on this mountain eyrie as if she had been
chained hand and foot.

And so the winter wore away, and the spring.
What wheat grew in their fields in this upper air !
Wild oats, too, in every nook and corner. The goats
frisked and fattened, and their hair grew long and
silky ; the sheep were already heavy again with wool,
and it was not yet midsummer. The spring rains
had been good ; the stream was full, and flowers grew
along its edges thick as in beds.

The baby had thrived ; as placid, laughing a little
thing as if its mother had never known sorrow.
" One would think she had suckled pain," thought
Ramona, " so constantly have I grieved this year ;
but the Virgin has kept her well."

If prayers could compass it, that would surely have
been so ; for night and day the devout, trusting, and
contrite Ramona had knelt before the Madonna and
told her golden beads, till they were wellnigh worn
smooth of all their delicate chasing.

At midsummer was to be a fete in the Saboba vil
lage, and the San Bernardino priest would come
there. This would be the time to take the baby

RAMONA. 425

down to be christened ; this also would be the time
to send the letter to Felipe, enclosed in one to Aunt
Hi, who would send it for her from San Bernardino.
Eamona felt half gnilty as she sat plotting what she
should say and how she should send it, — she, who
had never had in her loyal, transparent breast one
thought secret from Alessandro since they were
wedded. But it was all for his sake. When he was
well, he would thank her.

She wrote the letter with much study and delibera
tion ; her dread of its being read by the Senora was so
great, that it almost paralyzed her pen as she wrote.
More than once she destroyed pages, as being too
sacred a confidence for unloving eyes to read. At
last, the day before the fete, it was done, and safely
hidden away. The baby's white robe, finely wrought
in open-work, was also done, and freshly washed and
ironed. No baby would there be at the fete so
daintily wrapped as hers ; and Alessandro had at
last given his consent that the name should be Ma-
jella. It was a reluctant consent, yielded finally only
to please Kamona ; and, contrary to her wont, she had
been willing in this instance to have her own wish
fulfilled rather than his. Her heart was set upon
having the seal of baptism added to the name she
so loved ; and, " If I were to die," she thought, " how
glad Alessandro would be, to have still a Majella ! "

All her preparations were completed, and it was
yet not noon. She seated herself on the veranda to
watch for Alessandro, who had been two days away,
and was to have returned the previous evening, to
make ready for the trip to Saboba. She was dis
quieted at his failure to return at the appointed time.
As the hours crept on and he did not come, her
anxiety increased. The sun had gone more than an
hour past the mid-heavens before he came. He had
ridden fast ; she had heard the quick strokes of

426 RAMONA.

the horse's hoofs on the ground before she saw him.
" Why comes he riding like that ? " she thought, and
ran to meet him. As he drew near, she saw to her
surprise that he was riding a new horse. " Why,
Alessandro ! " she cried. "What horse is this ? "

He looked at her bewilderedly, then at the horse.
True ; it was not his own horse ! He struck his hand
on his forehead, endeavoring to collect his thoughts.
" Where is my horse, then ? " he said.

" My God ! Alessandro," cried Ramona. " Take the
horse back instantly. They will say you stole it."

" But I left rny pony there in the corral," he said.
" They will know I did not mean to steal it. How
could I ever have made the mistake ? I recollect
nothing, Majella. I must have had one of the sick
nesses."

Eamona's heart was cold with fear. Only too well
she knew what summary punishment was dealt in
that region to horse-thieves. " Oh, let me take it
back, dear ! " she cried. " Let me go down with it.
They will believe me."

"Majella!" he exclaimed, "think you I would
send you into the fold of the wolf ? My wood-dove !
It is in Jim Farrar's corral I left my pony. I was
there last night, to see about his sheep-shearing in
the autumn. And that is the last I know. I will
ride back as soon as I have rested. I am heavy with
sleep."

Thinking it safer to let him sleep for an hour, as
his brain was evidently still confused, Eamona as
sented to this, though a sense of danger oppressed
her. Getting fresh hay from the corral, she with her
own hands rubbed the horse down. It was a fine,
powerful black horse ; Alessandro had evidently urged
him cruelty up the steep trail, for his sides were steam
ing, his nostrils white with foam. Tears stood in
Eamona's eyes as she did what she could for him.

EAMONA. 427

He recognized her good-will, and put his nose to her
face. " It must be because he was black like Benito,
that Alessanclro took him," she thought. " Oh, Mary
Mother, help us to get the creature safe back!" she
said.

When she went into the house, Alessandro was
asleep. Eamona glanced at the sun. It was al
ready in the western sky. By no possibility could
Alessandro go to Farrar's and back before dark. She
was on the point of waking him, when a furious
barking from Capitan and the other dogs roused him
instantly from his sleep, and springing to his feet, he
ran out to see what it meant. In a moment more
Eamona followed, — only a moment, hardly a moment;
but when she reached the threshold, it was to hear a
gun-shot, to see Alessandro fall to the ground, to see,
in the same second, a ruffianly man leap from his
horse, and standing over Alessandro's body, fire his
pistol again, once, twice, into the forehead, cheek.
Then with a volley of oaths, each word of which
seemed to Eamona's reeling senses to fill the air with
a sound like thunder, he untied the black horse from
the post where Eamona had fastened him, and leap
ing into his saddle again, galloped away, leading
the horse. As he rode away, he shook his fist at
Eamona, who was kneeling on the ground, striving to
lift Alessandro's head, and to stanch the blood flow
ing from the ghastly wounds. " That '11 teach you
damned Indians to leave off stealing our horses ! " he
cried, and with another volley of terrible oaths was
out of sight.

With a calmness which was more dreadful than
any wild outcry of grief, Eamona sat on the ground
by Alessaudro's body, and held his hands in hers.
There was nothing to be done for him. The first shot
had been fatal, close to his heart, — the murderer aimed
well ; the after-shots, with the pistol, were from mere

428 RAMONA.

wanton brutality. After a few seconds Eamona rose,
went into the house, brought out the white altar-cloth,
and laid it over the mutilated face. As she did
this, she recalled words she had heard Father Salvier-
derra quote as having been said by Father Junipero,
when one of the Franciscan Fathers had been mas
sacred by the Indians, at San Diego. " Thank God ! "
he said, " the ground is now watered by the blood of
a martyr ! "

" The blood of a martyr! " The words seemed to float
in the air ; to cleanse it from the foul blasphemies the
murderer had spoken. " My Alessandro ! " she said.
" Gone to be with the saints ; one of the blessed mar
tyrs ; they will listen to what a martyr says." His
hands were warm. She laid them in her bosom, kissed
them again and again. Stretching herself on the
ground by his side, she threw one arm over him, and
whispered in his ear, " My love, my Alessandro ! Oh,
speak once to Majella ! Why do I not grieve more ?
My Alessandro ! Is he not blest already ? And soon
we will be with him ! The burdens were too great.
He could not bear them ! " Then waves of grief
broke over her, and she sobbed convulsively ; but still
she shed no tears. Suddenly she sprang to her feet,
and looked wildly around. The sun was not many
hours high. Whither should she go for help ? The
old Indian woman had gone away with the sheep,
and would not be back till dark. Alessandro must
not lie there on the ground. To whom should she
go ? To walk to Saboba was out of the question.
There was another Indian village nearer, — the village
of the Cahuillas, on one of the high plateaus of San
Jaciuto. She had once been there. Could she find
that trail now ? She must try. There was no human
help nearer.

Taking the baby in her arms, she knelt by Ales
sandro, and kissing him, whispered, " Farewell, nay

RAMON A. 429

beloved. I will not be long gone. I go to bring
friends." As she set off, swiftly running, Capitan,
who had been lying by Alessandro's side, uttering
heart-rending howls, bounded to his feet to follow
her. " No, Capitan," she said ; and leading him back
to the body, she took his head in her hands, looked
into his eyes, and said, " Capitan, watch here." With
a whimpering cry, he licked her hands, and stretched
himself on the ground. He understood, and would
obey ; but his eyes followed her wistfully till she
disappeared from sight.

The trail was rough, and hard to find. More than
once Eamona stopped, baffled, among the rocky ridges
and precipices. Her clothes were torn, her face bleed
ing, from the thorny shrubs ; her feet seemed leaden,
she made her way so slowly. It was dark in the ra
vines; as she climbed spur after spur, and still saw
nothing but pine forests or bleak opens, her heart sank
within her. The wav had not seemed so long before.

v O

Alessandro had been with her; it was a joyous, bright
day, and they had lingered wherever they liked, and
yet the way had seemed short. Fear seized her that
she was lost. If that were so, before morning she
would be with Alessandro ; for fierce beasts roamed
San Jacinto by night. But for the baby's sake, she
must not die. Feverishly she pressed on. At last,
just as it had grown so dark she could see only a few
hand-breadths before her, and was panting more from
terror than from running, lights suddenly gleamed
out, only a few rods ahead. It was the Calmilla
village. In^a few moments she was there.

Tt is a poverty-stricken little place, the Calmilla
village, — a cluster of tule and adobe huts, on a nar
row bit of bleak and broken ground, on San Jacinto
Mountain; the people are very poor, but are proud
and high-spirited, — veritable mountaineers ill nature,
fierce arid independent.

430 RAMONA.

Alessandro had warm friends among them, and the
news that he had been murdered, and that his wife
had run all the way down the mountain, with her
baby in her arms, for help, went like wild-fire through
the place. The people gathered in an excited group
around the house where Eamona had taken refuge.
She was lying, half unconscious, on a bed. As soori^
as she had gasped out her terrible story, she had'
fallen forward on the floor, fainting, and the baby
had been snatched from her arms just in time to
save it. She did not seem to miss the child ; had
not asked for it, or noticed it when it was brought
to the bed. A merciful oblivion seemed to be fast
stealing over her senses. But she had spoken words
enough to set the village in a blaze of excitement. It
ran higher and higher. Men were every where •mount
ing their horses, — some to go up and bring Ales-
saudro's body down ; some organizing a party to go
at once to Jim Farrar's house and shoot him : these
were the younger men, friends of Alessandro. Earn
estly the aged Capitan of the village implored them
to refrain from such violence.

"Why should ten be dead instead of one, my
sons ? " he said. " Will you leave your wives and your
children like his ? The whites will kill us all if you
lay hands on the man. Perhaps they themselves will
punish him."

A derisive laugh rose from the group. Never yet
within their experience had a white man been pun
ished for shooting an Indian. The Capitan knew
that as well as they did. Why did he command them
to sit still like women, and do nothing, when a friend
was murdered ?

" Because I am old, and you are young. I have
seen that we fight in vain." said the wise old man.
" It is not sweet to me, any more than to you. It is
a fire in my veins ; but I am old. I have seen. I
forbid you to go."

EAMONA. 431

The women added their entreaties to his, and the
young men abandoned their project. But it was with
sullen reluctance ; and mutterings were to be heard,
on all sides, that the time would come yet. There
was more than one way of killing a man. Farrar
would not be long seen in the valley. Alessandro
should be avenged.

As Farrar rode slowly down the mountain, leading
his recovered horse, he revolved in his thoughts what
course to pursue. A few years before, he would have
gone home, no more disquieted at having killed an
Indian than if he had killed a fox or a wolf. But
things were different now. This Agent, that the
Government had taken it into its head to send out
to look after the Indians, had made it hot, the other
day, for some fellows in San Bernardino who had
maltreated an Indian ; he had even gone so far as to
arrest several liquor-dealers for simply selling whis
key to Indians. If he were to take this case of Ales-
sandro's in hand, it might be troublesome. Farrar
concluded that his wisest course would be to make a
show of good conscience and fair-dealing by deliver
ing himself up at once to the nearest justice of the
peace, as having killed a man in self-defence. Ac
cordingly he rode straight to the house of a Judge
Wells, a few miles below Saboba, and said that he
wished to surrender himself as having committed
"justifiable homicide " on an Indian, or Mexican,
he did not know which, who had stolen his horse.
He told a plausible story. He professed not to know
the man, or the place ; but did not explain how it
was, that, knowing neither, he had gone so direct to
the spot.

He said : " I followed the trail for some time, but
when I reached a turn, I came into a sort of blind
trail, where I lost the track. I think the horse had
been led up on hard sod, to mislead any one on the

432 RAMONA.

track. I pushed on, crossed the creek, and soon found
the tracks again in soft ground. This part of the
mountain was perfectly unknown to me, and very
wild. Finally I came to a ridge, from which I looked
down on a little ranch. As I came near the house,
the dogs began to bark, just as I discovered my
horse tied to a tree. Hearing the dogs, an Indian, or
Mexican, I could not tell which, came out of the house,
flourishing a large knife. I called out to him, 'Whose
horse is that ? ' He answered in Spanish, ' It is
mine.' ' Where did you get it ? ' I asked. ' In San
Jacinto,' was his reply. As he still came towards
me, brandishing the knife, I drew my gun, and said,
' Stop, or I '11 shoot ! ' He did not stop, and 1 fired ;
still he did not stop, so I fired again ; and as he did
not fall, I knocked him down with the butt of my
gun. After he was down, I shot him twice with my
pistol."

Ths duty of a justice in such a case as this was
clear. Taking the prisoner into custody, he sent out
messengers to summon a jury of six men to hold
inquest on the body of said Indian, or Mexican ; and
early the next morning, led by Farrar, they set out
for the mountain. When they reached the ranch,
the body had been removed ; the house was locked ;
no signs left of the tragedy of the day before, except
a few blood-stains on the ground, where Alessandro
had fallen. Farrar seemed greatly relieved at this
unexpected phase of affairs. However, when he
found that Judge Wells, instead of attempting to
return to the valley that night, proposed to pass the
night at a ranch only a few miles from the Cahuilla
village, he became almost hysterical \v7ith fright. He
declared that the Cahuillas would surely come and
murder him in the night, and begged piteously that
the men would all stay with him to guard him.

At midnight Judge Wells was roused by the

RAMON A. 433

arrival of the Capitan and head men of the Cahuilla
village, They had heard of his arrival with his jury,
and they had come to lead them to their village,
where the body of the murdered man lay. They
were greatly distressed on learning that they ought
not to have removed the body from the spot where
the death had taken place, and that now no inquest
could be held.

Judge Wells himself, however, went back with them,
saw the body, and heard the full account of the
murder as given by Ramona on her first arrival.
Nothing more could now be learned from her, as she
was in high fever and delirium ; knew no one, not
even her baby when they laid it on her breast. She
lay restlessly tossing from side to side, talking inces
santly, clasping her rosary in her hands, and con
stantly mingling snatches of prayers with cries for
Alessandro and Felipe ; the only token of conscious
ness she gave was to clutch the rosary wildly, and
sometimes hide it in her bosom, if they attempted
to take it from her.

Judge Wells was a frontiersman, and by no means
sentimentally inclined ; but the tears stood in his
eyes as he looked at the unconscious Ramona.

Farrar had pleaded that the preliminary hearing
might take place immediately; but after this visit to
the village, the judge refused his request, and ap
pointed the trial a week from that day, to give time
for Ramona to recover, and appear as a witness. He
impressed upon the Indians as strongly as he could
the importance of having her appear. It was evident
that Farrar's account of the affair was false from first
to last. Alessandro had no knife. He had not had
time to go many steps from the door ; the volley of
oaths, and the two shots almost simultaneously, were
what Ramona heard as she ran to the door. Alessan
dro could not have spoken many words.

434 RAMONA.

The day for the hearing came. Farrar had been,
during the interval, in a merely nominal custody ;
having been allowed to go about his business, on his
own personal guarantee of appearing in time for the
trial. It was with a strange mixture of regret and
relief that Judge Wells saw the hour of the trial ar
rive, and not a witness on the ground except Farrar
himself. That Farrar was a brutal ruffian, the whole
country knew. This last outrage was only one of a
long series ; the judge would have been glad to have
committed him for trial, and have seen him get
his deserts. But San Jacinto Valley, wild, sparsely
settled as it was, had yet as fixed standards and
criterions of popularity as the most civilized of
communities could show ; and to betray sympathy
with Indians was more than any man's political head
was worth. The word "justice" had lost its meaning,
if indeed it ever had any, so far as they were con
cerned. The valley was a unit on that question,
however divided it might be upon others. On the
whole, the judge was relieved, though it was not with
out a bitter twinge, as of one accessory after the
deed, and unfaithful to a friend ; for he had known
Alessandro well. Yet, on the whole, he was relieved
when he was forced to accede to the motion made
~by Farrar's counsel, that " the prisoner be discharged
on ground of justifiable homicide, no witnesses having
appeared against him."

He comforted himself by thinking — what was no
doubt true — that even if the case had been brought
to a jury trial, the result would have been the same ;
for there would never have been found a San Diego
County jury that would convict a white man of mur
der for killing an Indian, if there were no witnesses to
the occurrence except the Indian wife. But he derived
small comfort from this. Alessandro's face haunted
him, and also the memory of Kamona's, as she lay

RAMON A. 435

tossing and moaning in the wretched Cahuilla hovel.
He knew that only her continued illness, or her death,
could explain her not having corae to the trial. The
Indians would have brought her in their arms all
the way, if she had been alive and in possession of
her senses.

During the summer that she and Alessandro had
lived in Saboba he had seen her many times, and
had been impressed by her rare quality. His chil
dren knew her and loved her ; had often been in her
house; his wife had bought her embroidery. Ales
sandro also had worked for him ; and no one knew
better than Judge Wells that Alessandro in his
senses was as incapable of stealing a horse as any
white man in the valley. Farrar knew it; every
body knew it. Everybody knew, also, about his
strange fits of wandering mind ; and that when these
half-crazed fits came on him, he was wholly irre
sponsible. Farrar knew this. The only explanation
of Furrar's deed was, that on seeing his horse spent
and exhausted from having been forced up that ter
rible trail, he was seized by ungovernable rage, and
fired on the second, without knowing what he did.
" But he would n't have done it, if it had n't been
an Indian ! " mused the judge. " He 'd ha' thought
twice before he shot any white man down, that
way."

Day after day such thoughts as these pursued the
judge, and he could not shake them off. An uneasy
sense that he owed something to Eamona, or, if
Eamona were dead, to the little child she had left,
haunted him. There might in some such way be a
sort of atonement made to the murdered, unavenged
Alessandro. He might even take the child, and bring
it up in his own house. That was by no means
an uncommon thing in the valley. The longer he
thought, the more he felt himself eased in his mind

436 RAMONA.

by this purpose ; and he decided that as soon as he
could find leisure he would go to the Cahuilla village
and see what could be done.

But it was not destined that stranger hands should
bring succor to Bamona. Felipe had at last found
trace of her. Felipe was on the way.

XXV.

TT^FFECTUALLY misled by the faithful Carmenaj
-JJJ Felipe had begun his search for Alessandro by
going direct to Monterey. He found few Indians
in the place, and not one had ever heard Alessandro's
name. Six miles from the town was a little settle
ment of them, in hiding, in the bottoms of the San
Carlos River, near the old Mission. The Catholic
priest advised him to search there ; sometimes, he
said, fugitives of one sort and another took refuge in
this settlement, lived there for a few months, then
disappeared as noiselessly as they had come. Felipe
searched there also ; equally in vain.

He questioned all the sailors in port ; all the ship
pers. No one had heard of an Indian shipping on
board any vessel ; in fact, a captain would have to be
in straits before he would take an Indian in his crew.

" But this was an exceptionally good worker, this
Indian ; he could turn his hand to anything ; he might
have gone as ship's carpenter."

" That might be," they said ; " nobody had ever
heard of any such thing, however;" and very much
they all wondered what it was that made the hand
some, sad Mexican gentleman so anxious to find this
Indian.

Felipe wasted weeks in Monterey. Long after lie
had ceased to hope, he lingered. He felt as if he would •
like to stay till every ship that had sailed out of Mon
terey in the last three years had returned. Whenever
he heard of one coining into harbor, he hastened to
the shore, and closely watched the disembarking. His

438 RAMON A.

melancholy countenance, with its eager, searching
look, became a familiar sight to every one ; even the
children knew that the pale gentleman was looking
for some one he could not find. Women pitied him,
and gazed at him tenderly, wondering if a man could
look like that for anything save the loss of a sweet
heart. Felipe made no confidences. He simply asked,
day after day, of every one he met, for an Indian
named Alessandro Assis.

Finally he shook himself free from the dreamy spell
of the place, and turned his face southward again.
He went by the route which the Franciscan Fathers
used to take, when the only road on the California
coast was the one leading from Mission to Mission.
Felipe had heard Father Salvierderra say that there
were in the neighborhood of each of the old Missions
Indian villages, or families still living. He thought
it not improbable that, from Alessandro's father's long
connection with the San Luis Hey Mission, Alessan
dro might be known to some of these Indians. He
would leave no stone unturned ; no Indian village
unsearched ; no Indian unquestioned.

San Juan Bautista came first ; then Soledad, San
Antonio, San Miguel, San Luis Obispo, Santa. Inez ;
and that brought him to Santa Barbara. He had
spent two months on the journey. At each of these
places he found Indians ; miserable, half-starved
creatures, most of them. Felipe's heart ached, and
he was hot with shame, at their condition. The ruins
of the old Mission buildings were sad to see, but the
human ruins were sadder. Now Felipe understood
why Father Salvierdevra's heart had broken, and why
his mother had been full of such fierce indignation
against the heretic, usurpers and despoilers of the
estates which the Franciscans once held. He could
not understand why the Church had submitted, with
out fighting, to such indignities and robberies. At

RAMONA. 439

every one of the Missions he heard harrowing tales
of the sufferings of those Fathers who had clung to
their congregations to the last, and died at their posts.
At Soledad an old Indian, weeping, showed him the
grave of Father Sarria, who had died there of starva
tion. " He gave us all he had, to the last," said the
old man. " He lay on a raw-hide on the ground, as
we did ; and one morning, before he had finished
the mass, he fell forward at the altar and was dead.
And when we put him in the grave, his body was only
bones, and no flesh ; he had gone so long without
food, to give it to us."

At all these Missions Felipe asked in vain for
Alessandro. They knew very little, these northern
Indians, about those in the south, they said. It was
seldom one from the southern tribes came northward.
They did not understand each other's speech. The
more Felipe inquired, and the longer he reflected, the
more he doubted Alessanclro's having ever gone to
Monterey. At Santa Barbara he made a long stay.
The Brothers at the College welcomed him hospitably.
They had heard from Father Salvierderra the sad
story of Kamona, and were distressed, with Felipe, that
no traces had been found of her. It grieved Father
Salvierderra to the last, they said ; he prayed for her
daily, but said he could not get any certainty in his
spirit of his prayers being heard. Only the day
before he died, he had said this to Father Francis,
a young Brazilian monk, to whom he was greatly
attached.

In Felipe's overwrought frame of mind this seemed
to him a terrible omen ; and he set out on his journey
with a still heavier heart than before. He believed
Eamona was dead, buried in some unknown, uncon-
secrated spot, never to be found ; yet he would not
give up the search. As he journeyed southward, he
began to find persons who had known of Alessandro;

440 RAM ON A.

and still more, those who had known his father, old
Pablo. But no one had heard anything of Alessan-
dro's whereabouts since the driving out of his people
from Temecula ; there was no knowing where any of
those Temecula people were now. They had scat
tered " like a flock of ducks," one Indian said, —
"like a flock of ducks after they are fired into.
¥"ou 'd never see all those ducks in any one place
again. The Temecula people were -here, there, and
everywhere, all through San Diego County. There
was one Temecula man at San Juan Capistrano, how
ever. TheSeiior would better see him. He no doubt
knew about Alessandro. He was living in a room in
the old Mission building. The priest had given it
to him for taking care of the chapel and the priest's
room, and a little rent besides. He was a hard man,
the San Juan Capistrano priest ; he would take the
last dollar from a poor man."

It was late at night when Felipe reached San Juan
Capistrauo ; but he could not sleep till he had seen
this man. Here was the first clew he had gained.
He found the man, with his wife and children, in a
large corner room opening on the inner court of the
Mission quadrangle. The room was dark and damp
as a cellar ; a fire smouldered in the enormous fire
place ; a few skins and rags were piled near the
hearth, and on these lay the woman, evidently ill.
The sunken tile floor was icy cold to the feet ; the
wind swept in at a dozen broken places in the cor
ridor side of the wall; there was not an article of
furniture. "Heavens!" thought Felipe, as he en
tered, " a priest of our Church take rent for such
a hole as this ! "

There was no light in the place, except the little
which came from the fire. " I am sorry I have no
candle, Senor," said the man, as he came forward.
" My wife is sick, and we are very poor."

RAMONA. 441

" No matter," said Felipe, his hand already at his
purse. " I only want to ask you a few questions.
You are from Temecula, they tell me."

"Yes, Senor," the man replied in a dogged tone, —
no man of Temecula could yet hear the word without
a pang, — "I was of Temecula."

" I want to find one Alessandro Assis who lived
there. You knew him, I suppose," said Felipe,
eagerly.

At this moment a brand broke in the smouldering
fire, and for one second a bright blaze shot up ; only
for a second, then all was dark again. But the swii't
blaze had fallen on Felipe's face, and with a start
which he could not control, but which Felipe did not
see, the Indian had recognized him. " Ha, ha ! " he
thought to himself. " Senor Felipe Moreno, you come
to the wrong house asking for news of Alessaudro
Assis ! "

It was Antonio, — Antonio, who had been at the
Moreno sheep-shearing ; Antonio, who knew even
more than Carmena had known, for he knew what a
marvel and miracle it seemed that the beautiful
Senorita from the Moreno house should have loved
Alessandro, and wedded him ; and he knew that on
the night she went away with him, Alessandro had
lured out of the corral a beautiful horse for her to
ride. Alessandro had told him all about it, — Baba,
fiery, splendid Baba, black as night, with a white star
in his forehead. Saints ! but it was a bold thing to
do, to steal such a horse as that, with a star for a
mark ; and no wonder that even now, though near
three years afterwards, Senor Felipe was in search of
him. Of course it could be only the horse he wanted
Ha ! much help might he get from Antonio 1

" Yes, Senor, I knew him," he replied.

" Do you know where he is now ? "

" No, Senor."

442 RAMON A.

" Do you know where he went, from Temecula ? "

" No, Seiior."

" A woman told me he went to Monterey. I have
been there looking for him."

" I heard, too, he had gone to Monterey."

" Where did you see him last ? "

" Tn Temecula."

" Was he alone ? "

" Yes, Seiior."

" Did you ever hear of his being married ? "

" No, Senor."

" Where are the greater part of the Temecula peo
ple now ? "

" Like this, Senor," with a bitter gesture, pointing
to his wife. "Most of us are beggars. A few here,
a few there. Some have gone to Capitau Grande,
some way down into Lower California."

Wearily Felipe continued his bootless questioning.
No suspicion that the man was deceiving him crossed
his mind. At last, with a sigh, he said, " I hoped to
have found Alessaiidro by your means. I am greatly
disappointed."

" I doubt not that, Senor Felipe Moreno," thought
Antonio. " I am sorry, Senor," he said.

It smote his conscience when Felipe laid in his
hand a generous gold-piece, and said, " Here is a bit
of money for you. I am sorry to see you so poorly
off."

The thanks which he spoke sounded hesitating
and gruff, so remorseful did he feel. Senor Felipe
had always been kind to them. How well they had
fared always in his house ! It was a shame to lie to
him ; yet the first duty was to Alessandro. It could
not be avoided. And thus a second time help drifted
away from Eamona.

At Temecula, from Mrs. Hartsel, Felipe got the
first true intelligence of Alessandro's movements ;

RAMON A. 443

but at first it only confirmed his worst forebodings.
Alessandro had been at Mrs. Hartsel's house ; he
had been alone, and on foot ; he was going to walk
all the way to San Pasquale, where he had the prom
ise of work.

How sure the kindly woman was that she was
telling the exact truth. After long ransacking of her
memory and comparing of events, she fixed the time
so nearly to the true date, that it was to Felipe's mind
a terrible corroboration of his fears. It was. he thought,

* O *

about a week after Eamona's flight from home that
Alessandro had appeared thus, alone, on foot, at Mrs.
Hartsel's. In great destitution, she said ; and she had
lent him money on the expectation of selling his
violin ; but they had never sold it ; there it was yet.
And that Alessandro was dead, she had no more
doubt than that she herself was alive ; for else, he
would have come back to pay her what he owed.
The honestest fellow that ever lived, was Alessandro.
Did not the Seiior Moreno think so ? Had he not
found him so always ? There were not many such
Indians as Alessandro and his father. If there had
been, it would have been better for their people.
" If they 'd all been like Alessandro, I tell you," she
said, "it would have taken more than any San
Diego sheriff to have put them out of their homes
here."

" But what could they do to help themselves, Mrs.
Hartsel ? " asked Felipe. " The law was against them.
We can't any of us go against that. I myself have
lost half my estate in the same way."

" Well, at any rate they would n't have gone without
fighting ! " she said. " ' If Alessandro had been here ! '
they all said."

Felipe asked to see the violin. " But that is not
Alessandro's," he exclaimed. " I have seen his."

" No J " she said. " Did I say it was his ? It

444 RAMONA.

his father's. One of the Indians brought it in here
to hide it with us at the time they were driven out.
It is very old, they say, and worth a great deal of
money, if you could find the right man to buy it.
But he has not come along yet. He will, though. I
am not a bit afraid but that we'll get our money
back on it. If Alessandro was alive, he 'd have been
here long before this."

Finding Mrs. Hartsel thus friendly, Felipe suddenly
decided to tell her the whole story. Surprise and in
credulity almost overpowered her at first. She sat
buried in thought for some minutes; then she sprang to
her feet, and cried : " If he 's got that girl with him, he 's
hiding somewhere. There 's nothing like an Indian
to hide ; and if he is hiding, every other Indian knows
it, and you just waste your breath asking any ques
tions of any of them. They will die before they will
tell you one thing. They are as secret as the grave.
And they, every one of them, worshipped Alessandro.
You see they thought he would be over them, after
Pablo, and they were all proud of him because he
could read and write, and knew more than most of
them. If I were in your place," she continued, " I
would not give it up yet. I should go to San Pas-
quale. Now it might just be that she was along
with him that night he stopped here, hid somewhere,
while he came in to get the money. I know I urged
him to stay all night, and he said he could not do it.
I don't know, though, where he could possibly have
left her while he carne here."

Never in all her life had Mrs. Hartsel been so
puzzled and so astonished as now. But her sympathy,
and her confident belief that Alessandro might yet
be found, gave unspeakable cheer to Felipe.

" If I find them, I shall take them home with me,
Mrs. Hartsel," he said as lie rode away; "and we will
come by this road and stop to see you." And the very

RAMON A. 445

speaking of the words cheered him all the way to San
Pasquale.

But before he had been in San Pasquale an hour,
he was plunged into a perplexity and disappointment
deeper than he had yet felt. He found the village in
disorder, the fields neglected, many houses deserted,
the remainder of the people preparing to move away.
In the house of Ysidro, Alessandro's kinsman, was
living a white family, — the family of a man who had
pre-empted the greater part of the land on which the
village stood. Ysidro, profiting by Alessandro's ex
ample, when he found that there was no help, that
the American had his papers from the land-office, in
all due form, certifying that the land was his, had
given the man his option of paying for the house or
having it burned down. The man had bought the
house ; and it was only the week before Felipe ar
rived, that Ysidro had set off, with all his goods and
chattels, for Mesa Grande. He might possibly have
told the Seiior more, the people said, than any one
now in the village could ; but even Ysidro did not
know where Alessandro intended to settle. He told
no one. He went to the north. That was all they
knew.

To the north ! That north which Felipe thought
he had thoroughly searched. He sighed at the word.
The Senor could, if he liked, see the house in
which Alessandro had lived. There it was, on the
south side of the valley, just in the edge of the foot
hills ; some Americans lived in it now. Such a good
ranch Alessandro had ; the best wheat in the valley.
The American had paid Alessandro something for it, — •
they did not know how much ; but Alessandro was
very lucky to get anything. If only they had lis
tened to him. He was always telling them tin's
would come. Now it was too late for most of them
to get anything for their farms. One man had taken

446 RAMONA.

the whole of the village lands, and he had bought
Ysidro's house because it was the best ; and so they
would not get anything. They were utterly dis
heartened, broken-spirited.

In his sympathy for them, Felipe almost forgot
his own distresses. " Where are you going ? " he
asked of several.

"Who knows, Senor ? " was their reply. "Wliere
can we go ? There is no place."

When, in reply to his questions in regard to Ales-
sandro's wife, Felipe heard her spoken of as " Majella,"
his perplexity deepened. Finally he asked if no one
had ever heard the name liamona.

" Never."

What could it mean ? Could it be possible that
this was another Alessandro than the one of whom he
was in search ? Felipe bethought himself of a possi
ble marriage-record. Did they know where Alessandro
had married this wife of his, of whom every word
they spoke seemed both like and unlike Kamona ?

Yes. It was in San Diego they had been married,
by Father Gaspara.

Hoping against hope, the baffled Felipe rode on to
San Diego ; and here, as ill-luck would have it, he
found, not Father Gaspara, who would at his first
word have understood all, but a young Irish priest,
who had only just come to be Father Gaspara's assist
ant. Father Gaspara was away in the mountains,
at Santa Ysabel. But the young assistant would do
equally well, to examine the records. He was cour
teous and kind ; brought out the tattered old book, and,
looking over his shoulder, his breath coming fast with
excitement and fear, there Felipe read, in Father
Gaspara's hasty and blotted characters, the fatal entry
of the names, " Alessandro Assis and Majella Fa — '

Heart-sick, Felipe went away. Most certainly Ea-
nioiia would never have been married under any but

RAM ON A. 447

her own name. Who, then, was this woman whom
Alessandro Assis had married in less than ten days
from the night on which Ramona had left her home ?
Some Indian woman for whom he felt compassion,
or to whom he was bound by previous ties ? And
where, in what lonely, forever hidden spot, was the
grave of Ramona ? \,

Now at last Felipe felt sure that she was dead. It
was useless searching farther. Yet, after he reached
home, his restless conjectures took one more turn,
and he sat down and wrote a letter to every priest
between San Diego and Monterey, asking if there
were on his books a record of the marriage of one
Alessandro Assis and Ramona Ortcgna.

It was not impossible that there might be, after
all, another Alessandro Assis. The old Fathers, in
baptizing their tens of thousands of Indian con
verts, were sore put to it to make out names enough.
There might have been another Assis besides old
Pablo, and of Alessandros there were dozens every
where.

This last faint hope also failed. No record any
where of an Alessandro Assis, except in Father Gas-
para's book.

As Felipe was riding out of San Pasquale, he had
seen an Indian man and woman walking by the side
of mules heavily laden. Two little children, too
young or too feeble to walk, were so packed in among
the bundles that their faces were the only part of
them in sight. The woman was crying bitterly.
" More of these exiles. God help the poor creatures • "
thought Felipe ; and he pulled out his purse, and gave-
the woman a piece of gold. She looked up in as
great astonishment as if the money had fallen from
the skies. " Thanks ! Thanks, Seiior ! " she exclaimed ;
and the man coming up to Felipe said also, "God
reward you, Seiior ! That is more money than I

448 RAMONA.

had .in the world! Does the Senor know of any
place where I could get work ? "

Felipe longed to say, " Yes, come to my estate ;
there you shall have work ! " In the olden time
he would have done it without a second thought,
for both the man and the woman had good faces, —
were young and strong. But the pay-roll of the
Moreno estate was even now too long for its dwin
dled fortunes. "No, my man, I am sorry to say I
do not," he answered. " I live a long way from
here. Where were you thinking of going ? "

" Somewhere in San Jacinto," said the man. " They
say the Americans have not come in there much yet.
I have a brother living there. Thanks, Seiior ; may
the saints reward you ! "

" San Jacinto ! " After Felipe returned home, the
name haunted his thoughts. The grand mountain-
top bearing that name he had known well in many
a distant horizon. " Juan Can," he said one day, " are
there many Indians in San Jacinto ? "

" The mountain ? " said Juan Can.

" Ay, I suppose, the mountain," said Felipe. " What
else is there ? "

" The valley, too," replied Juan. " The San Jacinto
Valley is a fine, broad valley, though the river is not
much to be counted on. It is mostly dry sand a
good part of the year. But there is good grazing.
There is one village of Indians I know in the valley ;
some of the San Luis Eey Indians came from there ;
and up on the mountain is a big village ; the wildest
Indians in all the country live there. Oh, they are
fierce, Senor ! "

The next morning Felipe set out for San Jacinto.
Why had no one mentioned, why had he not him
self known, of these villages ? Perhaps there were
yet others he had not heard of. Hope sprang in
Felipe's impressionable nature as easily as it died.

EAMONA. 449

An hour, a moment, might see him both lifted up
and cast down. When he rode into the sleepy little
village street of San Bernardino, and saw, in the
near horizon, against the southern sky, a superb
mountain-peak, changing in the sunset lights from
turquoise to ruby, and from ruby to turquoise again,
he said to himself, " She is there ! I have found her ! "

The sight of the mountain affected him, as it had
always affected Aunt lii, with an indefinable, solemn
sense of something revealed, yet hidden. " San Ja-
cinto ? " he said to a bystander, pointing to it with his
whip.

" Yes, Sefior," replied the man. As he spoke, a
pair of black horses came whirling round the cor
ner, and he sprang to one side, narrowly escaping
being knocked down. " That Tennessee fellow 11 run
over somebody yet, with those black devils of his, if
he don't look out," he muttered, as he recovered his
balance.

Felipe glanced at the horses, then driving his
spurs deep into his horse's sides, galloped after them.
" Baba ! by God ! " he cried aloud in his excitement ;
and forgetful of everything, he urged his horse faster,
shouting as he rode, " Stop that man ! Stop that
man with the black horses ! "

Jos, hearing his name called on all sides, reined in
Benito and Baba as soon as he could, and looked
around in bewilderment to see what had happened.
Before he had time to ask any questions, Felipe had
overtaken him, and riding straight to Baba's head,
had flung himself from his own horse and taken
Baba by the rein, crying, " Baba ! Baba ! " Baba
knew his voice, and began to whinny and plunge.
Felipe was nearly unmanned. For the second, he
forgot everything. A crowd was gathering around
them. It had never been quite clear to the San Ber
nardino mind that Jos's title to Benito and Baba

29

450 EAMONA.

would bear looking into ; and it was no surprise,
therefore, to some of the on-lookers, to hear Felipe
cry in a loud voice, looking suspiciously at Jos,
" How did you get him ? "

Jos was a wag, and Jos was never hurried. The
man did not live, nor could the occasion arrive, which
would quicken his constitutional drawl. Before even
beginning his answer he crossed one leg over the
other and took a long, observant look at Felipe ;
then in a pleasant voice lie said : " Wall, Senor, —
I allow yer air a Senor by yer color, — it would
take right smart uv time tew tell yeow haow I cum
by thet hoss, 'n' by the other one tew. They ain't
mine, neither one on 'em."

Jos's speech was as unintelligible to Felipe as it had
been to Kamona. Jos saw it, and chuckled.

" Mebbe 't would holp yer tew understand me ef I
wuz tew talk Mexican," he said, and proceeded' to
repeat in tolerably good Spanish the sum and sub
stance of what he had just said, adding : " They
belong to an Indian over on San Jacinto ; at least,
the off one does; the nigh one's his wife's; he
would n't ever call thet one anything but hers. It
had been hers ever sence she was a girl, they said.
I never saw people think so much of horses as they
did."

Before Jos had finished speaking, Felipe had bound
ed into the wagon, throwing his horse's reins to a
boy in the crowd, and crying, " Follow along with
my horse, will you ? I must speak to this man."

Found ! Found, — the saints be praised, — at last !
How should he tell this man fast enough ? How
should he thank him enough ?

Laying his hand on Jos's knee, he cried : " I can't
explain to you ; I can't tell you. Bless you forever,
— forever ! It must be the saints led you here ! "

" Oh, Lawd i " thought Jos; " another o' them ' saint'

RAMON A. 451

fellers ! I allow not, Senor," he said, relapsing into
Tennesseean. " It wur Tom Wurmsee led me ; I
wuz gvvine ter move bis truck fur him this arter-
noon."

"Take me home with you to your house," said
Felipe, still trembling with excitement ; " we cannot
talk here in the street. I want to hear all you can
tell me about them. I have been searching for them
all over California."

Jos's face lighted up. This meant good fortune
for that gentle, sweet Eamona, he was sure. " I '11
take you straight there," he said ; " but first I must
stop at Tom's. He will be waiting for me."

The crowd dispersed, disappointed ; cheated out of
their anticipated scene of an arrest for horse-stealing.
" Good for you, Tennessee ! " and, " Fork over that
black horse, Jos ! " echoed from the departing groups.
Sensations were not so common in San Bernardino
that they could afford to slight so notable an occasion
as this.

As Jos turned the corner into the street where he
lived, he saw his mother coming at a rapid run
towards them, her sun-bonnet half off her head, her
spectacles pushed up in her hair.

" Why, thar 's mammy ! " he exclaimed. " What
ever hez gone wrong naow ? "

Before he finished speaking, she saw the black
horses, and snatching her bonnet from her head
waved it wildly, crying, "Yeow Jos! Jos, hyar!
Stop ! I wuz er comin' ter hunt yer ! "

Breathlessly she continued talking, her words half
lost in the sound of the wheels. Apparently she did
not see the stranger sitting by Jos's side. " Oh, Jos,

O \i

thar 'a the terriblest news come! Thet Injun Ales-
sandro 's got killed ; murdered ; jest murdered, I say ;
't ain't no less. Thar wuz an Injun come down
from ther mounting with a letter to the Auent."

452 RAMON A.

u Good God ! Alessandro killed ! " burst from Felipe's
lips in a heart-rending voice.

Jos looked bewilderedly from his mother to Felipe ;
the complication was almost beyond him. " Oh,
Lawd ! " he gasped. Turning to Felipe, " Thet 's
mammy," he said. " She wuz real fond o' both on
'em." Turning to his mother, " This hyar 's her
brother," he said. " He jest knowed me by Baba,
hyar on ther street. He 's been huntin' 'em every-
whar."

Aunt Ei grasped the situation instantly. Wiping
her streaming eyes, she sobbed out : " Wall, I '11 allow,
arter this, thar is sech a thing ez a Providence, ez they
call it. 'Pears like ther could n't enuythin' less brung
yer hyar jest naow. I know who yer be ; ye 're her
brother Feeleepy, a1' n't yer ? Meuny 's ther time
she 's tolt me about yer ! Oh, Lawd ' How air we
ever goin' to git ter her ? I allow she 's dead ! I
allow she 'd never live arter seein' him shot down
dead ! He tolt me thar could n't nobody git up thar
whar they 'd gone ; no white folks, I mean. Oh,
Lawd, Lawd!"

Felipe stood paralyzed, horror-stricken. He turned
in despair to Jus. " Tell me in Spanish," he said.
" I cannot understand."

As Jos gradually drew out the whole story from his
mother's excited and incoherent speech, and trans
lated it, Felipe groaned aloud, " Too late ! Too late !"
He too felt, as Aunt Ei had, that Eamona never
could have survived the shock of seeing her hus
band murdered. " Too late ! Too late ! " he cried, as
he staggered into the house. " She has surely died
of the sight."

" I allow she did n't die, nuther," said Jos ; " not ser
long ez she hed thet young un to look arter ! "

" Yer air right, Jos ! " said Aunt Ei. " I allow yer
air right. Thar couldn't uothin' kill her, short ei

RAMONA. 453

wild beasts, ef she lied ther baby 'n her arms ! She
ain't dead, not ef the baby ez erlive, I allow. Thet 's
some comfort."

Felipe sat with his face buried in his hands, f
Suddenly looking up, he said, " How far is it ? "

"Thirty miles 'n' more inter the valley, where we'
wuz," said Jos ; " 'n' the Lawd knows how fur 't is up
on ter the mounting, where they wuz livin'. It 's like
goin' up the wall uv a house, goin' up San Jacinto
Mounting, daddy sez. He wuz thar huntin' all sum
mer with Alessandro."

How strange, how incredible it seemed, to hear
Alessandro's name thus familiarly spoken, — spoken
by persons who had known him so recently, and
who were grieving, grieving as friends, to hear
of his terrible death ! Felipe felt as if he were
in a trance. Eousing himself, he said, " We must
go. We must start at once. You will let me have
the horses ? "

" Wall, I allow yer 've got more right ter 'em 'n —
began Jos, energetically, forgetting himself; then,
dropping Tennesseean, he completed in Spanish his
cordial assurances that the horses were at Felipe's
command.

" Jos ! He 's got ter take me ! " cried Aunt Pa. " I
allow I ain't never gwine ter set still hyar, 'n' thet
girl inter sech trouble ; 'u' if so be ez she is reely
dead, thar 's the baby. He hed n't orter go alone
by hisself."

Felipe was thankful, indeed, for Aunt Ei's compan
ionship, and expressed himself in phrases so warm,,
that she was embarrassed.

" Yeow tell him, Jos," she said, " I can't never git
used ter bein' called Senory. Yeow tell him his sister
aiiers called me Aunt Ki, 'n' I jest wish he would. I
allow me 'n' him '11 git along all right. Tears like
I 'd known him all my days, jest ez 't did with her,

454 RAMONA.

arter the fust. I 'ra free to confess I take more ter
these Mexicans than I do ter these low-down, driven
Yankees, ennyhow, — a heap more ; but I can't stand
hem' Senory'd ! Yeow tell him, Jos. I s'pose thar 's a
\vord for ' aunt ' in Mexican, ain't there ? 'Pears like
thar could n't be no langwedge 'thout sech a word !
He '11 know what it means ! I 'd go off with him
a heap easier ef he 'd call rne jest plain Aunt Ei, ez
I 'm used ter, or Mis Hyer, either un on 'em ; but
Aunt Hi 's the nateralest."

Jos had some anxiety about his mother's memory
of the way to San Jacinto. She laughed.

" Don't yeow be a mite oneasy," she said. " I bet
yeow I 'd go clean back ter the States ther way we
cum. I allow I 've got every mile on 't 'n my hed
plain 's a turnpike. Yeow nor yer dad, neiry one on
yer, could n't begin to do 't. But what we air gwine
ter do, fur gittin' up the mounting, thet's another
thing. Thet's more 'n I dew know. But thar '11
be a way pervided, Jos, sure 's yeow 're bawn.
The Lawd ain't gwine to git hisself hindered er
holpin' Eamony this time ; I ain't a mite afeerd."

Felipe could not have found a better ally. The
comparative silence enforced between them by reason
of lack of a common vehicle for their thoughts was on
the whole less of a disadvantage than would have
at first appeared. They understood each other well
enough for practical purposes, and their unity in
aim, and in affection for Eamona, made a bond so
strong, it could not have been enhanced by words.

It was past sundown when they left San Bernardino,
but a full moon made the night as good as day for
their journey. When it first shone out, Aunt Ei,
pointing to it, said curtly, " Thet 's lucky."

" Yes," replied Felipe, who did not know either of
the words she had spoken, " it is good. It shows to
us the way."

RAMONA. 455

" Thar, naow, say he can't understand English ! "
thought Aunt Ei.

Benito and Baba travelled as if they knew the
errand on which they were hurrying. Good forty
miles they had gone without flagging once, when
Aunt Ei, pointing to a house on the right hand of the
road, the only one they had seen for many miles, said :
" We 11 hev to sleep hyar. I douno the road beyant
this. I allow they 're gone ter bed ; but they '11 hev
to git up 'n' take us in. They 're used ter doin' it.
They dew consid'able business keepin' movers. I
know 'em. They 're reel friendly fur the kind o'
people they air. They 're druv to death. It can't be
far frum their time to git up, ennyhow. They 're up
every morniri' uv thar lives long afore daylight, a
feeclin' their stock, an' gittin' ready fur the day's
work. I used ter hear 'em 'n' see 'em, when we wuz
campin' here. The fust I saw uv it, I thought some
body wuz sick in the house, to git 'em up thet time o'
night ; but arterwards we found out 't wan't nothin'
but thar reggerlar way. When I told dad, sez I,
' Dad, did ever yer hear sech a thing uz gittin' up
afore light to feed stock ? ' 'n' ter feed theirselves tew.
They'd their own breakfast all clared away, 'n' dishes
washed, too, afore light; 'n' prayers said beside ; they 're
Methodys, terrible pious. 1 used ter tell dad they
talked a heap about believin' in God ; I don't allow
but what they clew believe in God, tew, but they
don't worship Him so much 's they worship work ;
not nigh so much. Believin' 'n' worshippin' 's tew
things. Yeow would n't see no sech doin's in Tennes
see. I allow the Lawd meant some time fur sleepin' ;
^'n' I 'in satisfied with his times o' lightin' up. But
these Merrills air reel nice folks, fur all this I 've
ben tellin' yer! — Lawd! I don't believe he's un
derstood a word I 've said, naow ! " thought Aunt Ei
to herself, suddenly becoming aware of the • hopeless

456 RAMONA.

bewilderment on Felipe's face. " T ain't much use
say in' anything more 'n plain yes 'n' no, between folks
thet can't understand each other's langwedge ; 'n' s'
fur 's thet goes, I allow thar ain't any gret use 'u the
biggest part o' what 's sed between folks thet doos ! "

When the Merrill family learned Felipe's purpose of
going up the mountain to the Cahuilla village, they
attempted to dissuade him from taking his own horses.
He would kill them both, high-spirited horses like
those, they said, if he took them over that road. It
was a cruel road. They pointed out to him the line
where it wound, doubling and tacking on ihe sides of
precipices, like a path for a goat or chamois. Aunt
Ili shuddered at the sight, but said nothing.

"I'm gwine whar he goes," she said grimly to her
self. " I ain't a gwine ter back daown naow ; but I dew
jest wish Jeff Hyer wuz along."

Felipe himself disliked what he saw and heard of
the grade. The road had been built for bringing
down lumber, and for six miles it was at perilous
angles. After this it wound along on ridges and in
ravines till it reached the heart of a great pine forest,
where stood a saw-rnill. Passing this, it plunged into
still darker, denser woods, some fifteen miles farther
on, and then came out among vast opens, meadows,
and grassy foot-hills, still on the majestic mountain's
northern or eastern slopes. From these, another steep
road, little more than a trail, led south, and up to the
Cahuilla village. A day and a half's hard journey, at
the shortest, it was from Merrill's ; and no one un
familiar with the country could find the last part of
the way without a guide. Finally it was arranged
that one of the younger Merrills should go in this
capacity, and should also take two of his strong
est horses, accustomed to the road. By the help of
these the terrible ascent was made without difficulty,
though Baba at first snorted, plunged, and resented the

RAMONA. 457

humiliation of being harnessed with his head at
another horse's tail.

Except for their sad errand, both Felipe and Aunt
Ki would have experienced a keen delight in this as
cent. With each fresh lift on the precipitous terraces,
the view off to the south and west broadened, until
the whole San Jacinto Valley lay unrolled at their feet.
The pines were grand ; standing, they seemed shapely
columns ; fallen, the upper curve of their huge yel
low disks came above a man's head, so massive was
their size. On many of them the bark had been
riddled from root to top, as by myriads of bullet-
holes. In each hole had been cunningly stored away
an acorn, — the woodpeckers' granaries.

" Look at thet, naow ! " exclaimed the observant
Aunt Ei ; " an' thar 's folk's thet sez dumb critters ain't
got brains. They ain't noways dumb to each other,
I notice ; an' we air dumb aourselves when we air
ketched with furriners. I allow I 'm next door to
dumb myself with this hyar Mexican I 'm er travellin'
with."

" That 's so ! " replied Sam Merrill. " When we
fust got here, I thought I 'd ha' gone clean out o' my
head tryin' to make these Mexicans sense my mean-
in' ; my tongue was plaguy little use to me. But
now I can talk their lingo fust-rate ; but pa, he
can't talk to 'em nohow ; he hain't learned the fust
word ; 'n' he 's ben here goin' on two years longer 'n
we have."

The miles seemed leagues to Felipe. Aunt Ei's
drawling tones, as she chatted volubly with young
Merrill, chafed him. How could she chatter ! But
when he thought this, it would chance that in a few
•moments more he would see her clandestinely wiping
away tears, and his heart would warm to her again.

They slept at a miserable cabin in one of the clear
ings, and at early dawn pushed on, reaching the

458 RAMON A.

Cahuilla village before noon. As their carriage came
in sight, a great running to and fro of people was to
be seen. Such an event as the arrival of a comforta
ble carriage drawn by four horses had never before
taken place in the village. The agitation into which
the people had been thrown by the murder of Ales-
sandro had by no means subsided ; they were all on
the alert, suspicious of each new occurrence. The
news had only just reached the village that Farrar
had been set at liberty, and would not be punished
for his crime, and the flames of indignation and desire
for vengeance, which the aged Capitan had so much
difficulty in allaying in the outset, were bursting forth
again this morning. ' It was therefore a crowd of hos
tile and lowering faces which gathered around the car
riage as it stopped in front of the Capitaii's house.

Aunt Ei's face was a ludicrous study of mingled
terror, defiance, and contempt. " Uv all ther low-
down, no-'count, beggarly trash ever I laid eyes on,"
she said in a low tone to Merrill, " I allow these yere
air the wust ! But I allow they 'd flatten us all aout
in jest abaout a minnit, ef they wuz to set aout tew !
Ef she ain't hyar, we air in a scrape, I allow."

" Oh, they 're friendly enough," laughed Merrill.
" They 're all stirred up, now, about the killin' o' that
Injun ; that 's what makes 'em look so fierce. I don't
wonder ! 'T was a derned mean thing Jim Farrar did,
a firm' into the man after he was dead. I don't
blame him for killin' the cuss, not a bit ; I 'd have
shot any man livin' that 'ad taken a good horse o'
mine up that trail. That 's the only law we stock
men 've got out in this country. We 've got to pro
tect ourselves. But it was a mean, low-lived trick to
blow the feller's face to pieces after he was dead ; but
Jim 's a rough feller, 'n' I expect he was so mad,
when he see his horse, that he didn't know what he
did."

RAMONA. 459

Aunt Ei was half paralyzed with astonishment at
this speech. Felipe had leaped out of the carriage,
ana after a few words with the old Capitau, had hur
ried with him into his house. Felipe had evidently
forgotten that she was still in the carriage. His
going into the house looked as if Eamona were there.
Aunt Ei, in all her indignation and astonishment,
was conscious of this train of thought running through
her mind ; but not even the near prospect of seeing
Eamona could bridle her tongue now, or make her
defer replying to the extraordinary statements she
had just heard. The words seemed to choke her as
she began. " Young man," she said, " I donno much
abaout yeotir raisin'. I Ve heered yeour folks wuz
great on religion. Naow, we ain't, Jeff 'n' me ; we
war n't raised thet way ; but I allow ef I wuz ter
hear my boy, Jos, — he 's jest abaout yeour age, 'n'
make tew, though he 's narrerer chested, — ef I
should hear him say what yeou 've jest said, I allow
I sh'd expect to see him struck by lightnin'; 'n' I
sh'd n't think he hed got more 'n his deserts, I allow
I sh'd n't ! "

What more Aunt Ei would have said to the as
tounded Merrill was never known, for at that instant
the old Capitan, returning to the door, beckoned to
her ; and springing from her seat to the ground, sternly
rejecting Sam's offered hand, she hastily entered the
house. As she crossed the threshold, Felipe turned
an anguished face towards her, and said, " Come,
speak to her." He was on his knees by a wretched pal
let on the floor. Was that Eamona, — that prostrate
form ; hair dishevelled, eyes glittering, cheeks scar
let, hands playing meaninglessly, like the hands of
one crazed, with a rosary of gold beads ? Yes, it was
Eamona ; and it was like this she had lain there now
ten days ; and the people had exhausted all their
simple skill for her in vain.

460 RAMON A.

Aunt Ei burst into tears. " Oh, Lawd ! " she said.
" Ef I had some ' old man ' hyar, I 'd bring her aout er
thet fever ! I dew bleeve I seed some on 't growiu'
not more 'n er mile back." And without a second look,
or another word, she ran out of the door, and spring
ing into the carriage, said, speaking faster than she
had been heard to speak for thirty years : " Yeow jest
turn raound 'n' drive me back a piece, the way we
come. I allow I '11 git a weed thet '11 break thet
fever. Faster, faster ! Run yer hosses. 'T ain't above
er mile back, whar I seed it," she cried, leaning out,
eagerly scrutinizing each inch of the barren ground.
" Stop ! Here 't is ! " she cried. " I knowed I smelt
the bitter on 't somewhars along hyar ; " and in a few
minutes more she had a mass of the soft, shining,
gray, feathery leaves in her hands, and was urging the
horses fiercely on their way back. " This '11 cure
her, ef ennything will," she said, as she entered the
room again ; but her heart sank as she saw Ramo-
na's eyes roving restlessly over Felipe's face, no sign
of recognition in them. "She 's bad;" she said, her
lips trembling ; " but, ' Never say die ! ' ez allers
our motto ; 't ain't never tew late fur ennything but
oncet, 'n' yer can't tell when thet time 's come till
it 's past 'n' gone."

Steaming bowls of the bitterly odorous infusion she
held at Rarnona's nostrils ; with infinite patience she
forced drop after drop of it between the unconscious
lips ; she bathed the hands and head, her own hands
blistered by the heat. It was a fight with death;
but love and life won. Before night Ramona was
asleep.

Felipe and Aunt Ri sat by her, strange but not un
congenial watchers, each taking heart from the other's
devotion. All night long Ramqna slept. As Felipe
watched her, he remembered his own fever, and how
she had knelt by his bed and prayed there. He

RAMONA. 4G1

glanced around the room. In a niche in the mud wall
was a cheap print of the Madonna, one candle just
smouldering out before it. The village people had
drawn heavily on their poverty-stricken stores, keep
ing candles burning for Alessandro and Eamona dur
ing the past ten clays. The rosary had slipped from
Eamona's hold ; taking it cautiously in his hand,
Felipe went to the Madonna's picture, and falling on
his knees, began to pray as simply as if he were alone.
The Indians, standing on the doorway, also fell on
their knees, and a low- whispered murmur was heard.

For a moment Aunt Hi looked at the kneeling
figures with contempt. " Oh, Lawd ! " she thought,
" the pore heathen, prayin' ter a picter ! " Then a
sudden revulsion seized her. " I allow I ain't gwine
ter be the unly one out er the hull number thet don't
seem to liev nothin' ter pray ter; I allow I '11 jine in
prayer, tew, but I shan't say mine ter no picter ! " And
Aunt Ei fell on her knees ; and when a young Indian
woman by her side slipped a rosary into her hand,
Aunt Ei did not repulse it, but hid it in the folds of
her gown till the prayers were done. It was a moment
and a lesson Aunt lii never forgot.

XXVI.

Capitan's house faced the east. Just as
JL day broke, and the light streamed in at the
open door, Ramona's eyes unclosed. Felipe and
Aunt Ri were both by her side. With a look of
bewildered terror, she gazed at them.

" Thar, thar, uaow ! Yer jest shet yer eyes 'n' go
right off ter sleep agin, honey," said Aunt Hi, com
posedly, laying her hand on Ramona's eyelids, and
compelling them down. " We air hyar, Feeleepy 'n'
me, 'n' we air goin' ter stay. I allow yer need n't be
afeerd o' nothin'. Go ter sleep, honey."

The eyelids quivered beneath Aunt Bi's fingers.
Tears forced their way, and rolled slowly down the
cheeks. The lips trembled ; the voice strove to speak,
but it was only like the ghost of a whisper, the faint
question that came, — " Felipe ? "

" Yes, dear ! I am here, too," breathed Felipe ; " go
to sleep. We will not leave you ! "

And again Rarnona sank away into the merciful
sleep which was saving her life.

" Ther longer she kin sleep, ther better," said Aunt
Ri, with a sigh, deep-drawn like a groan. " I allow I
dread ter see her reely come to. 'T '11 be wus 'n the
fust ; she '11 hev ter live it all over agin ! " f

But Aunt Ri did not know what forces of fortitude^
had been gathering in Ramona's soul during these last
bitter years. Out of her gentle constancy had been
woven the heroic fibre of which martyrs are made ;
tins, and her inextinguishable faith, had made her
strong, as were those of old, who " had trial of cruel
mocking, wandered about, being destitute, afflicted,

RAMONA. 463

tormented, wandered in deserts and in mountains,
and in dens and caves of the earth."

When she waked the second time, it was with a
calm, almost beatific smile that she gazed on Felipe,
and whispered, " How did you find me, dear Felipe ? "
It was rather by the motions of her lips than by any
sound that he knew the words. She had not yet
strength enough to make an audible sound. When
they laid her baby on her breast, she smiled again,
and tried to embrace her, but was too weak. Point
ing to the baby's eyes, she whispered, gazing earnestly
at Felipe, " Alessandro." A convulsion passed over
her face as she spoke the word, and the tears flowed.

Felipe could riot speak. He glanced helplessly at
Aunt Ei, who promptly responded : " Naow, honey,
don't yeow talk. 'T ain't good fur ye ; 'n' Feeleepy
'n' me, we air in a powerful hurry ter git yer strong
'n' well, 'n' tote ye out er this— Aunt Pa stopped.
No substantive in her vocabulary answered her need
at that moment. "I allow ye kin go 'n a week,
ef nothin' don't go agin ye more 'n I see naow ; but
ef yer git ter talkin', thar 's no tellin' when yer '11 git
up. Yeow jest shet up, honey. We '11 look arter
everythin'."

Feebly Eamona turned her grateful, inquiring eyes
on Felipe. Her lips framed the words, " With you ? "

" Yes, dear, home with me," said Felipe, clasping
her hand in his. " I have been searching for you all
this time."

An anxious look came into the sweet face. Felipe
knew what it meant. How often he had seen it in
the olden time. He feared to shock her by the
sudden mention of the Seriora's death ; yet that would
harm her less than continued anxiety. " I am alone,
dear Eamona," he whispered. "There is no one now
but you, my sister, to take care of me. My mother
has been dead a year."

464 RAMON A.

The eyes dilated, then filled with sympathetic tears.
" Dear Felipe ! " she sighed; but her heart took courage.
Felipe's phrase was like one inspired ; another duty,
another work, another loyalty, waiting for Itamona.
Not only her child to live for, but to " take care of
Felipe " ! Itamona would not die ! Youth, a mother's
love, a sister's affection and duty, on the side of life, —
the battle wf\s won, and won quickly, too.

To the simple Cahuillas it seemed like a miracle :
and they looked on Aunt Hi's weather-beaten face
with something akin to a superstitious reverence.
They themselves were not ignorant of the value
of the herb by means of which she had wrought
the marvellous cure ; but they had made repeated
experiments with it upon Kainona, without suc
cess. It must be that there had been some potent
spell in Aunt Ei's handling. They would hardly
believe her when, in answer to their persistent
questioning, she reiterated the assertion that she
had used nothing except the hot water and "old
man," which was her name for the wild wormwood ;
and which, when explained to them, impressed them
greatly, as having no doubt some significance in COIK
nection with the results of her preparation of the
leaves.

Humors about Felipe ran swiftly throughout the
region. The presence in the Cahuilla village of a
rich Mexican gentleman who spent gold like water,
and kept mounted men riding day and night, after
everything, anything, he wanted for his sick sister,
was an event which in the atmosphere of that
lonely country loomed into colossal proportions.
He had travelled all over California, with four
horses, in search of her. He was only waiting till
she was well, to take her to Ids home in the south ;
and then he was going to arrest the man who had
murdered her husband, and have him hanged, —

RAMON A. 465

yes, hanged ! Small doubt about that ; or, if the law
cleared him, there was still the bullet. This rich
Seiior would see him shot, if rope were not to be had.
Jim Farrar heard these tales, and quaked in his
guilty soul. The rope he had small i'ear of, for well
he knew the temper of San Diego County juries
and judges; but the bullet, that was another thing :
and these Mexicans were like Indians in their ven
geance. Time did not tire them, and their memories
were long. Farrar cursed the day he had let his
temper get the better of him on that lonely mountain
side ; how much the better, nobody but he himself
knew, — nobody but he and Kamona : and even
Kamona did not know the bitter whole. She knew
that Alessandro had no knife, and had gone for
ward with no hostile intent ; but she knew nothing
beyond that. Only the murderer himself knew that
the dialogue which he had reported to the judge and
jury, to justify his act, was an entire fabrication of
his own, and that, instead of it, had been spoken but
four words by Alessandro, and those were, " Seiior, I
M7ill explain ; " and that even after the first shot had
pierced his lungs, and the blood was choking in his
throat, he had still run a step or two farther, with
his hand uplifted deprecatingly, and made one more
effort to speak before he fell to the ground dead.
Callous as Farrar was, and clear as it was in his
niiud that killing an Indian was no harm, he had not
liked to recall the pleading anguish in Alessandro's
tone and in his face as he fell. He had not liked to
recall this, even before he heard of this rich Mexican
brother-in-law who had appeared on the scene; and
now, he found the memories still more unpleasant.
Fear is a wonderful goad to remorse. There was
another thing, too, which to his great wonder had
been apparently overlooked by everybody ; at least,
nothing had been said about it ; but the bearing of

30

466 RAMONA.

\

it on his case, if the case were brought up a second
time and minutely investigated, would be most un
fortunate. And this was, that the only clew he had
to the fact of Alessaudro's having taken his horse, was
that the poor, half-crazed fellow had left his own well-
known gray pony in the corral in place of the horse
he took. A strange thing, surely, for a horse-thief
to do ! Cold sweat burst out on Farrar's forehead,
more than once, as he realized how this, coupled
with the well-known fact of Alessandro's liability to
attacks of insanity, might be made to tell against
him, if he should be brought to trial for the murder.
He was as cowardly as he was cruel : never yet were
the twro traits separate in human nature ; and after
a few days of this torturing suspense and apprehen
sion, he suddenly resolved to leave the country, if not
forever, at least for a few years, till this brother-in-
law should be out of the way. He lost no time in
carrying out his resolution ; and it was well he did
not, for it was only three days after he had disap
peared, that Felipe walked into Judge Wells's office,
one morning, to make inquiries relative to the pre
liminary hearing which had been held there in the
matter of the murder of the Indian, Alessandro Assis,
by James Farrar. And when the judge, taking down
his books, read to Felipe hiu notes of the case, and
went on to say, " If Farrar's testimony is true, lla-
mona's, the wife's, must be false," and " at any rate, her
testimony would not be worth a straw with any jury,"
Felipe sprang to his feet, and cried, " She of whom
you speak is my foster-sister ; and, by God, Senor, if I
can find that man, I will shoot him as I would a dog !
And I '11 see, then, if a San Diego County jury will
hang me for ridding the country of such a brute ! "
and Felipe would have been as good as his word.
It was a wise thing Farrar had done in making his
escape.

RAMONA. 4G7

When Aunt Ei heard that Farrar had fled the
country, she pushed up her spectacles and looked
reflectively at her informant. It was young Merrill.
" Fled ther country, he/ he ? " she said. " Wall, he
kin flee ez many countries ez he likes, an' 't won't dew
him no good. I know yeow folks hyar don't seem
ter think killiri' an Injun's enny murder, but I say
't is ; an' yeow '11 all git it brung home ter yer afore
yer die : ef 't ain't brung one way, 't '11 be anuther ;
yeow jest mind what I say, 'n' don't yeow furgit it.
Naow this miser'ble murderer, this Farrar, thet's light
ed out er hyar, he 's nothin' more 'n a skunk, but he 's
got the Lawd arter him, naow. It 's jest 's well he 's
gawn ; I never did b'leeve in hangin'. I never could.
It 's jest tew men dead 'stead o' one. I don't want
to see no man hung, no marter what he 's done, 'n' I
don't want to see no man shot down, nuther, no
marter what he 's done ; 'n' this hyar Feeleepy, he 's
thet high-strung, he 'd ha' shot thet Farrar, any min-
nit, quicker 'n lightnin', ef he 'd ketched him ; so it 's
better all raound he 's lit aout. But I tell yeow,
naow, he hain't made much by goin' ! Thet Injun
he murdered '11 foller him night 'n' day, till he dies,
'n' long arter ; he '11 wish he wuz dead afore he doos
die, I allow he will, naow. He 11 be jest like a
man I knowed back in Tennessee. I wa'n't but a
mite then, but I never forgot it. 'T 's a great coun
try fur gourds, East Tennessee is, whar I wuz raised ;
'n' thar wuz two houses, 'n' a fence between 'em, 'n'
these gourds a runnin' all over the fence ; 'n' one o'
ther childun picked one o' them gourds, an' they fit
,abaout it; 'n' then the \vornen took it up, — ther
childun's mothers, yer know, — 'n' they got fightin'
abaout it ; 'n' then 't the last the men took it up, 'n'
they fit ; 'n' Eowell he got his butcher-knife, 'n' he
ground it up, 'n' he picked a querril with Claiborne,
'n' he cut him inter pieces. They bed him up for 't,

468 RAMO.VA.

n' somehow they clared him. I don't see how they
ever did, but they put 't off, 'n' put 't off, 'n' 't last
they got him free ; 'n' he lived ou thar a spell, but he
could n't stau' it ; 'peared like he never bed no peace ;
'u' he come over ter our 'us, 'n' sed he, 'Jake,' — they
allers called daddy ' Jake,' or ' Uncle Jake,' — ' Jake,'
sed he, ' I can't stau' it, livin' hyar.' ' Why,' sez
daddy, ' the law o' the country 's clar'd ye.' ' Yes,'
sez he, 'but the law o' God hain't; 'n' I've got
Claiborne allers with me. Thar ain't any path so
narrer, but he 's a walkin' in it, by my side, all
day ; 'n' come night, I sleep with him ter one side,
'n' my wife t' other ; 'n' I can't stan' it ! ' Them 's
ther very words I heered him say, '11' I wuz n't
ennythin' but a mite, but I did n't furgit it. Wall,
sir, he went West, way aout hyar to Californy, 'n'
he could n't stay thar nuther, 'n' he come back
hum agin ; 'n' I wuz bigger then, a gal grown, 'n'
daddy sez to him, — I heern him, — ' Wai,' sez he,
' did Claiborne foller yer ? ' ' Yes,' sez he, ' he fol-
lered me. I '11 never git shet o' him in this world.
He 's allers clost to me everywhar.' Yer see, 't was
jest his conscience er whippin' him. Thet 's all 't
wuz. 'T least, thet 's all I think 't wuz ; though
thar wuz those thet said 't wuz Claiborne's ghost.
'N' thet '11 be the way 't '11 be with this miser'ble
Farrar. He '11 live ter wish he 'd let hisself be
hanged er shot, er erry which way, ter git out er
his misery."

Young Merrill listened with unwonted gravity to
Aunt Hi's earnest words. They reached a depth in
his nature which had been long untouched ; a stratum,
so to speak, which lay far beneath the surface. The
character of the Western frontiersman, is often a sin
gular accumulation of such strata, — the training and
beliefs of his earliest days overlain by successions
of unrelated and violent experiences, like geological

BAM ON A. 469

deposits. Underneath the exterior crust of the most
hardened and ruffianly nature often remains — its
forms not yet tj_uite fossilized — a realm full of
the devout customs, doctrines, religious influences,
which the boy knew, and the man remembers. By
sudden upheaval, in some great catastrophe or strug
gle in his mature life, these all come again into
the light. Assembly Catechism definitions, which
he learned in his childhood, and has not thought
of since, ring in his ears, and he is thrown into all
manner of confusions and inconsistencies of feeling
and speech by this clashing of the old and new
man within him. It was much in this way that
Aunt Ei's words smote upon young Merrill. He was
not many years removed from the sound of a preach
ing of the straitest New England Calvinism. The
wild frontier life had drawn him in and under, as in a
whirlpool ; but he was New Euglander yet at heart.

" That 's so, Aunt Hi ! " he exclaimed. " That 's
so! I don't s'pose a man that's committed mur
der '11 ever have any peace in this world, nor in the
next nuther, without he repents ; but ye see this
horse-stealin' business is different. 'T ain't murder
to kill a hoss-thief, any way you can fix it; every
body admits that. A feller that 's caught horse-
stealin' had ought to be shot ; and he will be, too,
I tell you, in this country!"

A look of impatient despair spread over Aunt Ei's
face. " I hain't no patience left with yer," she said,
" er talkin' abaout stealin' hosses ez ef hosses wuz more
'n human bein's ! But lettiu' thet all go, this Injun, he
wuz crazy. Yer all knowed it. Thet Farrar kuowed.
it. D' yer think ef he 'd ben stealin' the hoss, he 'd
er left his own hoss in the corral, same ez, yer might
say, leavin' his kyerd to say 't wuz he done it; 'n'
the hoss er tied in plain sight 'n front uv his house
fur ennybody ter see ? "

470 RAMONA.

" Left his own horse, so he did ! " retorted Merrill.
"A poor, miserable, knock-kneed old pony, that
wa'n't worth twenty dollars ; 'n' Jim's horse was
worth two hundred, 'n' cheap at that."

" Thet ain't nuther here nor thar in what we air
^ayin'," persisted Aunt Ei. "I ain't a speakin' on ;t
ez a swap er hosses. What I say is, he wa'n't tryin'
to cover 't up thet he 'd tuk the hoss. We air sura
used ter hoss-thieves in Tennessee ; but I never heered
o' one yit thet left his name fur a refterence berhind
him, ter show which road he tuk, 'n' fastened ther
stolen critter ter his front gate when he got hum ! I
allow me 'n' yeow hed n't better say anytliin' much
more on ther subjeck, fur I allow we air bound to
querril ef we dew ; " and nothing that Merrill said
could draw another word out ot Aunt Ri in regard to
Alessandro's death. But there was another subject on.
which she was tireless, and her speech eloquent. It
was the kindness and goodness of the Cahuilla people.
The last vestige of her prejudice against Indians had
melted and gone, in the presence of their simple-hearted
friendliness. " I '11 never hear a word said agin 'em,
never, ter my longest day," she said. "The way
the pore things hed jest stripped theirselves, to git
tilings fur liamony, beat all ever I see among white
folks, 'n' I *ve ben raound more 'n most. 'N' they
wa'n't lookin' fur no pay, nuther ; fur they did n't
know, till Feeleepy 'n' me cum, thet she hed any
folks ennywhar, 'n' they'd ha' taken care on her
till she died, jest the same. The sick allers ez took
care on among them, they sed, 's long uz enny on
em hez got a thing left. Thet 's ther -way they air
Raised ; I allow white folks might take a lesson on
' 'em, in thet ; 'n' in heaps uv other things tew. Oh,
I'm done talkin' agin Injuns, naow, don't yeow fur-
git it ! But I know, fur all thet, 't won't make any
difference ; 'pears like there cudd n't nobody b'leeve

RAMONA. 471

ennythin' 'n this world 'thout seein' 't theirselves.
I wuz thet way tew ; I allow I hain 't got no call
ter talk ; but I jest wish the hull world could see
what I Ve seen ! Thet 's all ! "

It was a sad day in the village when Eamona and
»her friends departed. Heartily as the kindly peo-
'ple rejoiced in lier having found such a protector
for herself and her child, and deeply as they felt
Felipe's and Aunt Ei's good-will and gratitude to
wards them, they were yet conscious of a loss, — of
a void. The gulf between them and the rest of the
world seemed defined anew, their sense of isola
tion deepened, their hopeless poverty emphasized.
Itamona, wife of Alessandro, had been as their sister,
— one of them ; as such, she would have had share
in all their life had to offer. But its utmost was
nothing, was but hardship and deprivation ; and
she was being borne away from it, like one rescued,
not so much from death, as from a life worse than
death.

The tears streamed down liamona's face as she
bade them farewell. She embraced again and again
the young mother who had for so many days suckled
her child, even, it was said, depriving her own hard
ier babe that Eamona's should not suffer. " Sis
ter, you have given me my child," she cried ; " I
can never thank you; I will pray for you all my
life."

She made no inquiries as to Felipe's plans. Un-
questioningly, like a little child, she resigned her
self into his hands. A power greater than hers was
ordering her way; Felipe was its instrument. No
other voice spoke to guide her. The same old sim
plicity of acceptance which had characterized her
daily life in her girlhood, and kept her serene and
sunny then, — serene under trials, sunny in her routine
of little duties, — had kept her serene through all the

472 RAMONA.

afflictions, and calm, if not sunny, under all the
burdens of her later life ; and it did not desert her
even now.

Aunt Hi gazed at her with a sentiment as near to
veneration as her dry, humorous, practical nature was
capable of feeling. " I allow 1 donno but I sh'd
cum ter believin' in saints tew," she said, " ef I wuz
ter live 'long side er thet gal. Tears like she wuz
suthin' more 'n human. T beats me plum out, ther
way she takes her troubles. Thar 's sum would say
she hed n't no feel in' ; but I allow she hez more 'n
most folks. I kin see, 't ain't thet. I allow I did n't
never expect ter think 's well uv prayin' to picters,
'n' strings er beads, 'n' sech ; but ef t 's thet keeps her
up ther way she 's kept up, I allow thar 's more in
it 'n it 's hed credit fur. I ain't gwine ter say enny
more agin it, nor agin Injuns. 'Pears like I 'm gittin'
heaps er new idears inter my head, these days. I '11
turn Injun, mebbe, afore I git through!"

The farewell to Aunt Hi was hardest of all. Ra-
mona clung to her as to a mother. At times she felt
that she would rather stay by her side than go home
with Felipe ; then she reproached herself for the
thought, as for a treason and ingratitude. Felipe-
saw the feeling, and did not wonder at it. " Dear
girl," he thought ; " it is the nearest she has ever come
to knowing what a mother's love is like !" And he
lingered in San Bernardino week after week, on the
pretence that Ramona was not yet strong enough to
bear the journey home, when in reality his sole motive
for staying was his reluctance to deprive her of Aunt
Ri's wholesome and cheering companionship.

Aunt Ri was busily at work on a rag carpet for the
Indian Agent's wife. She had j ust begun it, had woven
only a few inches, on that dreadful morning when the
news of Alessandro's death reached her. It was of
her favorite pattern, the " hit-er-miss " pattern, as she

EAMONA. 473

called it : no set stripes or regular alternation of
colors, but ball after ball of the indiscriminately
mixed tints, woven back and forth, on a warp of a
single color. The constant variety in it, the unex
pectedly harmonious blending of the colors, gave her
delight, and afforded her a subject, too, of not un-
philosophical reflection.

" Wall," she said, " it 's called ther ' hit-er-miss ' pat-
tren ; but it 's ' hit ' oftener 'n 't is ' miss.' Thar ain't
enny accountin' fur ther way ther breadths '11 come,
sometimes ; 'pears like 't wuz kind er magic, when
they air sewed tergether ; 'n' I allow thet 's ther way
it 's gwine ter be with heaps er things in this life.
It 's jest a kind er ' hit-er-miss' pattren we air all on
us livin' on ; 't ain't much use tryin' ter reckon how 't
11 come aout ; but the breadths doos fit heaps better
'n yer 'd think ; come ter sew 'em, 't aint never no sech
colors ez yer thought 't wuz gwine ter be, but it 's
allers pooty, allers; never see a ' hit-er-rniss ' pattren 'n
my life yit, thet wa'n't pooty. 'N' ther wa'n't never
nobody fetched me rags, 'n' hed 'em all planned
aout, 'n' jest ther way they wanted ther warp, 'n'
jest haow ther stripes wuz ter come, 'n' all, thet they
wa'n't orful diserpynted when they cum ter see 't
done. It don't never look 's they thought 't would,
never! I lamed thet lesson airly; 'n' 1 allers make
'em write 't aout on a paper, jest ther wedth er every
stripe, 'n' each er ther colors, so 's they kin see it 's
what they ordered ; 'r else they 'd allers say I hed n't
wove 't 's I wuz told ter. I got ketched thet way
oncet ! I allow ennybody 's a bawn fool gits ketched
twice runnin' ther same way. But fur me, I '11 take
ther 'hit-er-miss' pattren, every time, sir, straight
along."

When the carpet was done, Aunt Ei took the roll
in her own independent arms, and strode with it to
the Agent's house. She had been biding the time

474 RAMONA.

when she should have this excuse for going there.
Her mind was burdened with questions she wished
to ask, information she wished to give, and she chose
an hour when she knew she would find the A^ent
himself at home.

" I allow yer heered why I wuz behind time with
this yere carpet," she said ; " I wuz up ter San
Jacinto Mounting, where thet Injun wuz murdered.
We brung his widder 'n' ther baby daown with us,
me 'n' her brother. He 's tuk her home ter his
house ter live. He 's reel well off."

Yes, the Agent had heard this ; he had wondered
why the widow did not come to see him ; he had
expected to hear from her.

" Wall, I did hent ter her thet p'raps yer could
dew something, ef she wuz ter tell yer all abaout
it ; but she allowed thar wa'n't enny use in talkin'.
Ther jedge, he sed her witnessin' would n't be wuth
nuthin' to no jury ; 'n' thet wuz what I wuz a want-
in' to ask yeow, ef thet wuz so."

" Yes, that is what the lawyers here told me," said
the Agent. " I was going to have the man arrested,
but they said it would be folly to bring the case
to trial. The woman's testimony would not be
believed."

" Yeow 've got power ter git a man punished fur
sellin' whiskey to Injuns, I notice," broke in Aunt Ei ;
" hain't yer ? I see yeour man 'n' the marshal here
arrestin' 'em pooty lively last month ; they sed 't was
yeour doin' : yeow was a gwine ter prossacute every
livin' son o' hell — them wuz thar words — thet sold
.whiskey ter Injuns."

" That 's so ! " said the Agent. " So I am ; I am
determined to break up this vile business of selling
whiskey to Indians. It is no use trying to do any
thing for them while they are made drunk in this
way ; it 's a sin and a shame."

RAMONA. 475

" Thet 's so, I allow ter yeow," said Aunt Hi. " Thar
ain't any gainsayin' thet. But ef yeow 've got power
ter git a man put in jail fur sellin' whiskey t' 'n
Injun, 'n' hain't got power to git him punished ef
he goes 'n' kills thet Injun, 't sems ter me thar 's
suthin' cur'us abaout thet."

"That is just the trouble in my position here,
Aunt Ei," he said. " I have no real power over my
Indians, as I ought to have."

" What makes yer call 'em yeour Injuns ? " broke
in Aunt Hi.

The Agent colored. Aunt Ei was a privileged
character, but her logical method of questioning was
inconvenient.

" I only mean that they are under my charge," he
said. " I don't mean that they belong to me in any
way."

" Wall, I allow not," retorted Aunt Ei, " enny more
'n I dew. They air airnin' their liviii', sech 's 't is, ef
yer kin call it a livin'. I 've ben 'mongst 'em, naow,
this hyar last tew weeks, 'n' I allow I 've hed my
eyes opened ter some things. What 's thet docter
er yourn, him thet they call the Agency docter, —
what 's he got ter do ? "

" To attend to the Indians of this Agency when
they are sick," replied the Agent, promptly.

" Wall, thet's what I heern ; thet's what yeow sed
afore, 'u' thet 's why Alessandro, the Injun thet wuz
murdered, — thet 's why he put his name down 'n
yeour books, though 't went agin him orful ter do it.
He wuz high-spereted, 'n' 'd allers took keer er hisself ;
but he 'd ben druv out er fust one place 'n' then
another, tell he 'd got clar down, 'n' pore ; 'n' he jest
begged thet docter er yourn to go to see his little gal,
'nr the docter would n't; 'n' more 'n thet, he laughed
at him fur askin'. 'N' they set the little thing on the
hoss ter bring her here, 'n' she died afore they 'd come

476 RAMONA.

a mile with her ; V 't wuz thet, on top er all the rest,
druv Alessandro crazy. He never heel none er them
wandrin' spells till arter thet. Naow I allow thet
wa'n't right er thet docter. I would n't hev no sech
doctor 's thet raound my Agency, ef I wuz yeow.
IVaps yer never heered uv thet. I told Eamony
I did n't bleeve yer knowed it, or ye 'd hev made
him go."

" No, Aunt Ri," said the Agent ; " I could not have
done that ; he is only required to doctor such Indians
as come here."

" I allow, then, thar ain't any gret use en hevin'
him at all," said Aunt Ri; " 'pears like thar ain't
more 'n a harndful uv Injuns raound here. I expect
he gits well paid ? " and she paused for an answer.
None came. The Agent did not feel himself obliged
to reveal to Aunt Ri what salary the Government
paid the San Bernardino doctor for sending hap
hazard prescriptions to Indians he never saw.

After a pause Aunt Ri resumed : " Ef it ain't enny
offence ter yeow, I allow I 'd like ter know jest what
't is yeow air here ter dew fur these Injuns. I 've got
my feelin's considdable stirred up, bein' among 'em
'n' knowing this h}Tar one, thet 's ben murdered.
Hev ye got enny power to giv' 'em ennything, — food
or sech ? They air powerful pore, most on 'em."

" I have had a little fund for buying supplies for
them in times of special suffering ; " replied the
Agent, " a very little ; and the Department has ap
propriated some money for wagons and ploughs ; not
enough, however, to supply every village ; you see
these Indians are in the main self-supporting."

" Thet 's jest it," persisted Aunt Ri. " Thet 's what
I 've ben seein' ; 'n' thet 's why I want so bad ter git
at what 't is the Guvvermunt means ter hev yeow
dew fur 'em. I allow ef yeow ain't ter feed 'em, an*
ef yer can't put folks inter jail fur robbin' 'n' cheatiu'

RAM ON A. 477

'em, not ter say killin' em, — ef yer can't dew ennythin'
more '11 keep 'em from gettin' whiskey, wall, I 'm
free ter say — " Aunt Ei paused ; she did not wish
to seem to reflect on the Agent's usefulness, and so
concluded her sentence very differently from her
first impulse, — " I 'm free ter say I should n't like
ter stan' in yer shoes."

" You may very well say that, Aunt Ei," laughed
the Agent, complacently. " It is the most troublesome
Agency in the whole list, and the least satisfactory."

"Wall, I allow it mought be the least satisfying"
rejoined the indefatigable Aunt Ei ; " but I donno
whar the trouble cornes in, ef so be 's thar 's no more
kin be done than yer wuz er tellin'." And she looked
honestly puzzled.

" Look there, Aunt Ei ! " said he, triumphantly,
pointing to a pile of books and papers. "All those
to be gone through with, and a report to be made out
every month, arid a voucher to be sent for every lead-
pencil I buy. I tell you I work harder than I ever
did in my life before, and for less pay."

" I allow yer hev hed easy times afore, then,"
retorted Aunt Ei, good-naturedly satirical, " ef yeow
air plum tired doiu' thet ! " And she took her leave,
not a whit clearer in her mind as to the real nature
and function of the Indian Agency than she was in
the beginning.

o o

Through all of Eamona's journey home she seemed
to herself to be in a dream. Her baby in her arms ;
the faithful creatures, Buba and Benito, gayly trotting
along at a pace so swift that the carriage seemed glid-
ing; Felipe by her side, — the dear Felipe, — his eyes
wearing the same bright and loving look as of old, —
what strange thing was it which had happened to
her to make it all seem unreal ? Even the little
one in her arms, — she, too, seemed unreal ! Eamona
did not know it, but her nerves were still partially

478 RAM ON A.

paralyzed. Nature sends merciful anesthetics in
the shocks which almost kill us. In the very sharp
ness of the blow sometimes lies its own first healing.
It would be long before Ramona would fully realize
that Alessandro was dead. Her worst anguish was
yet to come.

Felipe did not know and could not have understood
this ; and it was with a marvelling gratitude that
he saw Ramona, day after day, placid, always ready
with a smile when he spoke to her. Her gratitude
for each though tfulness of his smote him like a re
proach ; all the more that he knew her gentle heart
had never held a thought of reproach in it towards
him. " Grateful to me ! " lie thought. " To me, who
might have spared her all this woe if I had been
strong ! "

Never would Felipe forgive himself, — no, not to the
day of his death. His whole life should be devoted
10 her and her child; but what a pitiful thing was
that to render !

As they drew near home, he saw Ramona often
try to conceal from him that she had shed tears.
At last he said to her : " Dearest Ramona, do not
fear to weep before me. I would not be any con
straint on you. It is better for you to let the
tears corne freely, my sister. They are healing to
wounds."

" I do not think so, Felipe," replied Ramona.
" Tears are only selfish and weak. They are like a
cry because we are hurt. It is not possible always
to keep them back; but I am ashamed when I have
wept, and think also that I have sinned, because I
have given a sad sight to others. Father Salvierderra
always said that it was a duty to look happy, no
matter how much we might be suffering."

" That is more than human power can do ! " said
Felipe.

RAMONA. 479

" I think not," replied Eamona. " If it were, Father
Salvierderra would not have commanded it. And do
you not recollect, Felipe, what a smile his face always
wore ? and his heart had been broken for many, many
years before he died. Alone, in the night, when he
prayed, he used to weep, from the great wrestling he
had with God, he told me ; but we never saw him
except with a smile. When one thinks in the wil
derness, alone, Felipe, many things become clear. I
have been learning, all these years in the wilderness,
as if I had had a teacher. Sometimes I almost
thought that the spirit of Father Salvierderra was by
my side putting thoughts into my mind. I hope
I can tell them to my child when she is old enough.
She will understand them quicker than I did, for
she has Alessandro's soul ; you can see that by her
eyes. And all these things of which I speak were
in his heart from his childhood. They belong to
the air and the sky and the sun, and all trees know
them."

When Eamona spoke thus of Alessandro, Felipe
marvelled in silence. He himself had been afraid to
mention Alessandro's name ; but Ramona spoke it as
if he were yet by her side. Felipe could not fathom
this. There were to be many things yet which Felipe
could not fathom in this lovely, sorrowing, sunny
sister of his.

When they reached the house, the servants, who
had been on the watch for days, were all gathered
in the court-yard, old Marda and Juan Can heading/
the group ; only two absent, — Margarita and Luigo.
They had been married some months before, and
were living at the Ortegas ranch, where Luigo, to
Juan Can's scornful .amusement, had been made
head shepherd.

On all sides were beaming faces, smiles, and glad
cries of greeting. Underneath these were affectionate

480 RAMONA.

hearts quaking with fear lest the home-coming be but
a sad one after all. Vaguely they knew a little of
what their dear Seiiorita had been through since she
left them ; it seemed that she must be sadly altered
by so much sorrow, and that it would be terrible
to her to come back to the place so full of painful
associations. "And the Senora gone, too," said one
of the outdoor hands, as they were talking it over ;
"it 's not the same place at all that it was when the
Seuora was here."

" Humph !" muttered Juan Can, more consequential
and overbearing than ever, for this year of absolute
control of the estate. " Humph ! that 's all you
know. A good thing the Senora died when she
did, I can tell you ! We 'd never have seen the
Seiiorita back here else ; I can tell you that, my
man ! And for my part, I 'd much rather be under
Senor Felipe and the Seiiorita than under the Senora,
peace to her ashes ! She had her day. They can
have theirs now."

When these loving and excited retainers saw
Ramona — pale, but with her own old smile on her
face — coming towards them with her babe in her
arms, they broke into wild cheering, and there was
not a dry eye in the group.

Singling out old Marda by a glance, Ramona held
out the baby towards her, and said in her old
gentle, affectionate voice, " I am sure you will love
my baby, Marda ! "

"Sefiorita! Seiiorita! God bless you, Seiiorita!"
they cried ; and closed up their ranks around the
baby, touching her, praising her, handing her from
one to another.

Ramona stood for a few seconds watching them ;
then she said, " Give her to me, Marda. I will myself
carry her into the house ; " and she moved toward the
inner door.

RAM ON A. 481

" This way, dear ; this way," cried Felipe. " It is
Father Salvierderra's room I ordered to be prepared
for you, because it is so sunny for the baby ! "

"Thanks, kind Felipe!" cried Eamona, and her
eyes said more than her words. She knew he had
divined the one thing she had most dreaded in return
ing, — the crossing again the threshold of her own
room. It would be long now before she would enter
that room. Perhaps she would never enter it. How
tender and wise of Felipe !

Yes; Felipe was both tender and wise, now. How
long would the wisdom hold the tenderness in leash, as
he day after day looked upon the face of this beauti
ful woman, — so much more beautiful now than she
had been before her marriage, that Felipe sometimes,
as he gazed at her, thought her changed even in
feature ? But in this very change lay a spell which
would for a long time surround her, and set her as
apart from lover's thoughts as if she were guarded by
a cordon of viewless spirits. There was a rapt look
of holy communion on her face, which made itself felt
by the dullest perception, and sometimes overawed
even where it attracted. It was the same thing
which Aunt Hi had felt, and formulated in her own
humorous fashion. But old Marda put it better,
when, one day, in reply to a half-terrified, low-whis
pered suggestion of Juan Can, to the effect that
it was " a great pity the Senor Felipe had n't married
the Seiiorita years ago, — what if he were to do it
yet ? " she said, also under her breath. " It is my
opinion he 'd as soon think of Saint Catharine her
self ! Not but that it would be a great thing if it
could be!"

And now the thing that the Senora had imaged to
herself so often had come about, — the presence of a
little child in her house, on the veranda, in the gar
den, everywhere; the sunny, joyous, blest presence.

31

482 RAMONA.

But how differently had it come ! Not Felipe's child,
as she proudly had pictured, but the child of Ra-
mona : the friendless, banished Ramona returned now
into full honor and peace as the daughter of the
house, — Ramona, widow of Alessandro. If the child
had been Felipe's own, he could not have felt for it
a greater love. From the first, the little thing had
clung to him as only second to her mother. She
slept hours in his arms, one little hand hid in his
dark beard, close to his lips, and kissed again and
again when no one saw. Next to Ramona herself
in Felipe's heart came Ramona' s child ; and on the
child he could lavish the fondness he felt that he
could never dare to show to the mother. Mouth by
month it grew clearer to Felipe that the mainsprings
of Ramona's life were no longer of this earth ; that
she walked as one in constant fellowship with one
unseen. Her frequent and calm mention of Alessan
dro did not deceive him. It did not mean a lessen
ing grief: it meant an unchanged relation.

One thing weighed heavily on Felipe's mind, — the
concealed treasure. A sense of humiliation with
held him, day after day, from speaking of it. But he
could have no peace until Ramona knew it. Each
hour that he delayed the revelation he felt himself
almost as guilty as he had held his mother to be. At
last he spoke. He had not said many words, before
Ramona interrupted him. " Oh, yes ! " she said. " I
knew about those things ; your mother told me.
When we were in such trouble, I used to wish some
times we could have had a few of the jewels. But
they were all given to the Church. That was what
the Senora Ortegna said must be done with them if I
married against your mother's wishes."

It was with a shame-stricken voice that Felipe
replied : " Dear Ramona, they were (not given to the
Church. You know Father Salvierderra died; and

RAMONA. 483

I suppose my mother did not know what to do with
them. She told me about them just as she was dying."

" But why did you not give them to the Church,
dear ? " asked liarnona, simply.

" Why ? " cried Felipe. " Because I hold them to
be yours, aud yours only. I would never have given
them to the Church, until I had sure proof that you
were dead and had left no children."

Ramona's eyes were fixed earnestly on Felipe's
face. " You have not read the Seiiora Ortegua's let
ter ? " she said.

" Yes, I have," he replied, " every word of it."

" But that said I was not to have any of the things
if I married against the Senora Moreno's will."

Felipe groaned. Had his mother lied ? "No, dear,"
he said, " that was not the word. It was, if you
married unworthily."

Eamona reflected. " I never recollected the words,"
she said. " I was too frightened ; but I thought that
was what it meant. I did not marry unworthily. Do
you feel sure, Felipe, that it would be honest for me
to take them for my child ? "

" Perfectly," said Felipe.

"Do you think Father Salvierderra would say I
ought to keep them ? "

" I am sure of it, dear."

"I will think about it, Felipe. I cannot decide
hastily. Your mother did not think I had any right
to them, if I married Alessandro. That was why she
showed them to me. I never knew of them till then.
I took one thing, — a handkerchief of my father's.
I was very glad to have it ; but it got lost when we
went from San Pasquale. Alessandro rode back a
half-day's journey to find it for me ; but it had blown
away. I grieved sorely for it."

The next day Ramona said to Felipe : " Dear
Felipe, I have thought it all over about those

484 RAAIONA.

jewels. I believe it will be right for my daughter to
have them. Can there be some kind of a paper
written for me to sign, to say that if she dies they
are all to be given to the Church, — to Father Sal-
vierderra's College, in Santa Barbara? That is where
I would rather have them go."

" Yes, dear," said Felipe ; " and then we will put
them in some safer place. I will take them to Los
Angeles when I go. It is wonderful no one has
stolen them all these years ! "

And so a second time the Ortegna jewels were
passed on, by a written bequest, into the keeping of
that mysterious, certain, uncertain thing we call the
future, and delude ourselves with the fancy that we
can have much to do with its shaping.

Life ran smoothly in the Moreno household, — •
smoothly to the eye. Nothing could be more peace
ful, fairer to see, than the routine of its days,
with the simple pleasures, light tasks, and easy
diligence of all. Summer and winter were alike
sunny, and had each its own joys. There was not
an antagonistic or jarring element ; and, flitting
back and forth, from veranda to veranda, garden
to garden, room to room, equally at home and
equally welcome everywhere, there went perpetually,
running, frisking, laughing, rejoicing, the little child
that had so strangely drifted into this happy shel
ter, — the little Eatnona. As unconscious of aught
sad or fateful in her destiny as the blossoms with
which it was her delight to play, she sometimes
seemed to her mother to have been from the first in
some mysterious way disconnected from it, removed,
set free from all that could ever by any possibility '
link her to sorrow.

Ramona herself bore no impress of sorrow ; rather
her face had now an added radiance. There had

KAMONA. 485

been a period, soon after her return, when she felt
that she for the first time waked to the realization of
her bereavement ; when every sight, sound, and place
seemed to cry out, mocking her with the name and
the memory of Alessandro. But she wrestled with this
absorbing grief as with a sin ; setting her will stead
fastly to the purposes of each day's duty, and, most of
all, to the duty of joyfulness. She repeated to her
self Father Salvierderra's sayings, till she more than
knew them by heart; and she spent long hours of
the night in prayer, as it had been his wont to do.

No one but Felipe dreamed of these vigils and
wrestlings. He knew them ; and he knew, too, when
they ceased, and the new light of a new victory dif
fused itself over Kamona's face : but neither did the
first dishearten, nor the latter encourage him. Felipe
was a clearer-sighted lover now than he had been in
his earlier youth. He knew that into the world
where Eamoria really lived he did not so much as
enter ; yet her every act, word, look, was full of lov
ing thoughtfulness of and for him, loving happiness
in his companionship. And while this was so, all
Felipe's unrest could not make him unhappy.

There were other causes entering into this unrest
besides his yearning desire to win Itarnona for his
wife. Year by year the conditions of life in Cali
fornia were growing more distasteful to him. The
methods, aims, standards of the fast incoming Ameri
cans were to him odious. Their boasted successes,
the crowding of colonies, schemes of settlement and
development, — all were disagreeable and irritating.
The passion for money and reckless spending of it,
the great fortunes made in one hour, thrown away in
another, savored to Felipe's rnind more of brigandage
and gambling than of the occupations of gentlemen.
He loathed them. Life under the new government
grew more and more intolerable to him ; both his

486 RAMON A.

hereditary instincts and prejudices, and his tempera
ment, revolted. He found himself more and more
alone in the country. Even the Spanish tongue was
less and less spoken. He was beginning to yearn for
Mexico, — for Mexico, which he had never seen, yet
yearned for like an exile. There he might yet live
among men of his own race and degree, and of con
genial beliefs and occupations. Whenever he thought
of this change, always came the quick memory of
Ramona. Would she be willing to go ? Could it be
that she felt a bond to this land, in which she had
knowrn nothing but suffering ?

At last he asked her. To his unutterable surprise,
Ramona cried : " Felipe ! The saints be praised ! I
should never have told you. I did not think that
you could wish to leave this estate. But my most
beautiful dream for Ramona would be, that she should
grow up in Mexico."

And as she spoke, Felipe understood by a lightning
intuition, and wondered that he had not foreknown
it, that she would spare her daughter the burden she
had gladly, heroically borne herself, in the bond of
race.

The question was settled. With gladness of
heart almost more than he could have believed pos
sible, Felipe at once communicated with some rich
American proprietors who had desired to buy the
Moreno estate. Land in the valley had so greatly
advanced in value, that the sum he received for it
was larger than he had dared to hope ; was ample
for the realization of all his plans for the new life in
Mexico. From the hour that this was determined,
and the time for their sailing fixed, a new expression
came into Ramona's face. Her imagination was kin
dled. An untried future beckoned, — a future which
she would embrace, and conquer for her daughter.
Felipe saw the look, felt the change, and for the first

EAMONA. 487

time hoped. It would be a new world, a new life ;
why not a new love ? She could not always be blind
to his devotion ; and when she saw it, could she refuse
to reward it ? He would be very patient, and wait
long, he thought. Surely, since he had been patient
so long without hope, he could be still more patient
now that hope had dawned ! But patience is not
hope's province in breasts of lovers. From the day
when Felipe first thought to himself, " She will yet
be mine," it grew harder, and not easier, for him to
refrain from pouring out his love in words. Her
tender sisterliness, which had been such balm and
comfort to him, grew at times intolerable ; and again
and again her gentle spirit was deeply disquieted
with the fear that she had displeased him, so strangely
did he conduct himself.

He had resolved that nothing should tempt
him to disclose to her his passion and its dreams,
until they had reached their new home. But
there came a moment which mastered him, and
he spoke.

It was in Monterey. They were to sail on the
morrow, and had been on board the ship to complete
the last arrangements. They were rowed back to
shore in a little boat. A full moon shone. Ramona
sat bareheaded in the end of the boat, and the silver
radiance from the water seemed to float up around
her, and invest her as with a myriad halos. Felipe
gazed at her till his senses swam ; and when, on step
ping from the boat, she put her hand in his, and said,
as she had said hundreds of times before, " Dear
Felipe, how good you are ! " he clasped her hands
wildly, and cried, " Eamona, my love ! Oh, can you
not love me ? "

The moonlight was bright as day. They were
alone on the shore. Ramona gazed at him for one
second, in surprise. Only for a second ; then she

488 RAMONA.

knew all " Felipe ! My brother ! " she cried, and

stretched out her hands as if in warning.

" No ! I am not your brother ! " he cried. " I will

not be your brother ! I would rather die ! "

" Felipe ! " cried Ramona again. This time her

voice recalled him to himself. It was a voice of

terror and of pain.

" Forgive me, my sweet one ! " he exclaimed. " I

will never say it again. But I have loved you so

long — so long ! "

Ramona's head had fallen forward on her breast,

her eyes fixed on the shining sands ; the waves rose

and fell, rose and fell, at her feet gently as sighs.

A great revelation had come to Ramona. In this
supreme moment of Felipe's abandonment of all dis
guises, she saw his whole past life in a new light.
Remorse smote her. "Dear Felipe," she said, clasp
ing her hands, " I have been very selfish. I did not
know —

" Of course you did not, love," said Felipe. " How
could you ? But I have never loved any one else. I
have always loved you. Can you not learn to love
me ? I did not mean to tell you for a long time
yet. But now I have spoken ; I cannot hide it any
more."

Ramona drew nearer to him, still with her hands
clasped. " I have always loved you," she said. " I love
no other living man ; but, Felipe," — her voice sank
to a solemn whisper, — "do you not know, Felipe,
that part of me is dead, — dead? can never live
again ? You could not want me for your wife, Felipe,
when part of me is dead ! "

Felipe threw his arms around her. He was beside
himself with joy. " You would not say that if you
did not think you could be my wife^i he cried. " Only
give yourself to me, my love, I care not whether you
call yourself dead or alive ! "

RAM ON A. 489

Ramona stood quietly in his arms. Ah, well for
Felipe that he did not know, never could know, the
Ramona that Alessandro had known. This gentle,
faithful, grateful Kamona, asking herself fervently
now if she would do her brother a wrong, yielding up
to him what seemed to her only the broken frag
ment of a life ; weighing his words, not in the light
of passion, but of calmest, most unselfish affection,
— ah, how unlike was she to that Eamona who flung
herself on Alessandro's breast, crying, " Take me with
you ! I would rather die than have you leave ine ! "
Ramona had spoken truth. Part of her was dead.
But Eamona saw now, with infallible intuition, that
even as she had loved Alessandro, so Felipe loved
her. Could she refuse to give Felipe happiness,
when he had saved her, saved her child ? What else
now remained for them, these wrords having been
spoken ? "I will be your wife, dear Felipe," she
said, speaking solemnly, slowly, " if you are sure it
will make you happy, and if you think it is right."

" Eight ! " ejaculated Felipe, mad with the joy un
locked for so soon. " Nothing else would be right !
My Eamona, I will love you so, you will forget you
ever said that part of you was dead ! "

A strange look which startled Felipe swept across
Eamona's face ; it might have been a moonbeam.
It passed. Felipe never saw it again.

General Moreno's name was still held in wrarm re
membrance in the city of Mexico, and Felipe found
himself at once among friends. On the day after
their arrival he arid Eamona were married in the
cathedral, old Marda and Juan Can, with his crutches,
kneeling in proud joy behind them. The story of the
romance of their lives, being widely rumored, greatly
enhanced the interest with which they were wel
comed. The beautiful young Senora Moreno was
the theme of the city; and Felipe's bosom thrilled

490 RAMONA.

with pride to see the gentle dignity of demeanor by
which she was distinguished in all assemblages. It
was indeed a new world, a new life. liamona might
well doubt her own identity. But undying memories
stood like sentinels in her breast. When the notes
of doves, calling to each other, fell on her ear, her
eyes sought the sky, and she heard a voice saying,
" Majella ! " This was the only secret her loyal, loving
heart had kept from Felipe. A loyal, loving heart
indeed it was, — loyal, loving, serene. Few husbands
so blest as the Senor Felipe Moreno.

Sons and daughters carne to bear his name. The
daughters were all beautiful ; but the most beautiful
of them all, and, it was said, the most beloved by
both father and mother, was the eldest one : the one
who bore the mother's name, and was only step
daughter to the Senor, — liamona, — Eamona, daugh
ter of Alessandro the Indian.

University Press : John Wilson and Son, Cambridge.

RAMONA'S HOME:

A VISIT TO THE CAMULOS RANCH, AND TO

SCENES DESCRIBED BY " H. H."

*»

BY

EDWARDS ROBERTS.

From the San Francisco CHRONICLE.

CAMULOS RANCH (SANTA CLARA VALLEY),

VENTURA COUNTY, CAL., April 27, 1886.

IN travelling from Tucson to the Santa Clara valley a
marked change is experienced. Here in California there
is not even a suggestion of the barren wastes that are so
apt to oppress one in Arizona. From Newhall, where just
now all the talk is in regard to the proposed new railroad,
to Camulos, the Santa Clara valley is a garden. By the
roadside is field after field of grain. It is strange there was
never before this a railroad built into such a fruitful region.
If I were an Easterner, and had never seen California,
and should see it as I do now, robed in its bright spring
dress, sweet to smell, beautiful to look upon, as warm and
pleasant as June is in New England, I should ever after be
a devoted admirer of the State, and could always be ready
to believe and indorse all the pleasant things said in regard
to it. But it is not as a stranger that I return to California,
nor do I seek this overland route simply because ol its
picturesqueness. What I sought is this which I have found,
— the Camulos ranch, the home of Ramona, whom " H. H."
created, and described as living with the Senora Moreno
in this house from which I write to-night. Yes, here lived
the heroine of the novel which many call the American
novel, long watched for and now come at last. Here,
before the cool, shaded veranda on which I sit is the court
yard ; here F elipe's room, and there Ramona's, and there the
Senora's. I can see the kitchen, from which to the dining-room
there was always a procession of children carrying smoking-
hot dishes to the Senora's table. Where I am sitting old Juan
Can used to lounge, with his legs stretched out before him,
and his dog at his feet. Near by is the south veranda, the

2 RAMONA'S HOME.

Sefiora's own, on which opened the room the good Father
Salviederra used always to occupy ; beyond that is the garden,
"always a mass of verdure," and in which is the chapel;
in other directions are the olive, almond, and orange groves.
It is all as Mrs. Jackson, in her novel of " Ramona," describes
it. One recognizes at once the various places where this and
that scene was enacted, and the characters of the story become
living realities.

THE CAMULOS.

The Camulos ranch comprises fourteen hundred acres of
farm and fruit land, and is about eighteen miles west of Newhall.
The property was bought by the husband of the present owner,
who is constantly reminding one of the Senora Moreno,
and the house was built nearly thirty-one years ago. The best-
known product of. the Camulos is its olives ; and next to these
are its oranges, lemons, and wines. " The house was of adobe,
low, with a wide veranda on the three sides of the inner court,
and a still broader one across the entire front, which looked
to the south. These verandas, especially those on the inner
court, were supplementary rooms to the house. The greater
part of the family life went on in them. . . . All the kitchen
work, except the actual cooking, was done here, in front of
the kitchen doors and windows. Babies slept, were washed,
sat in the dirt, and played on the verandas. The women said
their prayers, took their naps, and wove their lace there. The
herdsmen and shepherds smoked there, lounged there, trained
their dogs there ; there the young made love and the old dozed."
And it is the same now. The court is open on the east, and
that side is formed by a grove of orange-trees. In the centre
of the little square, set about with rose-bushes and a few trees,
is a small fountain basin ; and past this the maids and children
pass and repass a score of times a day, on their way from the
dining-room, on the south side of the court, to the kitchen on
the north. There being no hotel in this part of the valley, the
Camulos is often filled with belated strangers or visited by
those desirous of seeing what an old-time Spanish ranch is like.
The household is composed of nearly twenty people, related
to the Senora. They are all acquainted with Ramona, and
regret not being able to show one the original of that lovely
character. "Many who come here," I am told, " do not believe
that we are not the ones Mrs. Jackson described. They ask
for Ramona and the Senora Moreno, and wiL not believe

RAMONA'S HOME. 3

we are not the ones they wish to see. We remember when
Mrs. Jackson came. She did not remain long; and our Senora,
who, we are told, is so much like the Senora Moreno, was
then away."

THE SOUTH VERANDA.

The verandas about the inner court are long and deep. The
grape-vines clinging about the supporting posts are now just
coming into leaf, but the flowers are all in bloom. The south
veranda, " H. H." says, was a delightsome place. " It must
have been eighty feet long, at least, for the doors of five large
rooms opened on it. The two westernmost rooms had been
added on, and made four steps higher than the others, which
gave to that end of the veranda the look of a balcony or loggia.
Here the Senora kept her flowers ; great red water-jars, hand
made by the Indians of San Luis Obispo Mission, stood in
close rows against the walls, and in them were always growing
fine geraniums, carnations, and yellow-flowered musk. . . .
Besides the geraniums, carnations, and musk in the red jars,
there were many sorts of climbing vines, — some coming from
the ground, and twining around the pillars of the veranda ; some
growing in great bowls, swung by cords from th$ roof of the
veranda, or set on shelves against the walls. . . . Among these
vines, singing from morning till night, hung the Senora's cana
ries and finches, half a dozen of each, all of different generations,
raised by the Senora. She was never without a young bird
family on hand ; and all the way from Buena Ventura to Monte
rey, it was thought a piece of good luck to come into possession

RAMONA'S HOME.

of a canary or finch of Senora Moreno's raising." The south
veranda is still popular. In the day-time one sits there to enjoy
the prospect of the garden opposite, and during the evening
the Senora visits it and has quiet conversations with her people,
or with visiting friends.

THE RANCH-HOUSE.

Coming suddenly upon the Camulos ranch-house one might
naturally mistake it for some military stronghold. The walls
are thick and low, and are strengthened by heavy buttresses,
between which is a passage-way to the cellar, and over which
have grown honeysuckle vines that climb even to the over
hanging eaves of the house. It was on the south veranda, in

THE RANCH-HOUSE.

sight of these strong, vine-clad buttresses and of the garden,
that Felipe rested after his illness, while Alessandro watched
by his side. The westernmost room, leading off the upper
balcony or loggia, was the room always given to Father Salvie-
derra. Its window opens on the garden, and the doorway faces
the east. " Between the veranda and the river meadows . . .
all was garden, orange grove, and almond orchard ; the orange
grove always green, never without snowy bloom or golden fruit ;
the garden never without flowers, summer or winter ; and the
almond orchard in early spring a fluttering canopy of pink and
white petals. . . . On either hand stretched away other
orchards, — pear, peach, apricot, apple, pomegranate, — and
beyond these vineyards. Nothing was to be seen but verdure

RAMON AS HOME. r

or bloom or fruit, at whatever time of year you sat on the Se-
nora's south veranda."

The garden nearest the south side of the house is to nearly
all who visit the ranch the most delightful feature of the place.
It is barely an acre in extent, but is filled with trees and shrubs
that give forth a rich fragrance, and inhabited by many birds.
In the centre of the garden is a large, deep basin, into which
fall the waters of a fountain. Around the rim of the basin are
pots of flowers and curiosities found in the adjacent fields. To
the left of the fountain and extending down the east side of the
garden is a long grape arbor, overhung with vines. It leads
to the brook that runs in the shade of some old gnarled willow-
trees, where the maids are made, in " Ramona," to do the wash
ing of the Senora's luxurious household. It was there, too,
at the foot of the arbor, that Alessandro first saw Ramona,
as she was busy washing the altar-cloth that Margarita had
carelessly allowed to become torn. Beyond the brook is the
Santa Clara River, and from the south bank of that shallow
stream rises a group of hills, one being capped with a huge
wooden cross, which " H. H." says the Senora Moreno caused
to be set up, that it might serve as notice to all passers-by that
they were on the land of a good Catholic. There is another
of these crosses on the hill to the north of the ranch.

THE CHAPEL.

To the west of the garden fountain is a little chapel, so
often referred to in " Ramona." Standing in the shadow of
the orange-trees that fill the garden, and overgrown with trail
ing vines that creep over the pointed roof and are festooned
about the sides of the building, the chapel is a delightful place.
A shaded gravel-walk leads through the garden to its entrance,
and the interior contains a small white altar, on which are
several choice ornaments and a statue of the patron saint of
the household. The walls are hung with pictures of saints, >
some of them admirably well painted, and with brackets, on'
which stand vases of freshly cut flowers. The present Senora
is a devout churchwoman, and holds regular service in her
chapel. She reads the service herself as she kneels before the
a'tar, and the responses are made by her children and maids.
Whenever a Franciscan Father or a priest of the Catholic
Church passes up the Santa Clara valley, he is invited by the
Senora to visit her house, and say mass in the *chapel.
During such service the visitor is robed in richly wrought vest-

6 RAMONA'S HOME.

ments, which are kept in a chest of drawers standing near the
altar. In that same chest, too, is the cloth, with the rent
in it still showing, supposed to be the very one that Ra-
mona mended, — a fact illustrating the remarkable gift Mrs.
Jackson had of observing every detail of places she visited,

THE. CHAPEL.

and, later, of using that information to embellish her works and
render them realistic. She was at Camulos less than twenty-
four hours, and yet her description of the ranch-house and of
its surroundings in " Ramona" is wonderfully perfect. She un
doubtedly saw the torn altar-cloth, and in her novel worked the
fact into the story in a most realistic way. How " H. H." saw
so much and remembered it all so well is a marvel. Taking
"Ramona" in hand, one staying at Camulos can find almost
every scene described. There are the corrals, where the band
of Temecula Indians sheared the sheep; the barn from which
Alessandro took the saddle on the night of his and Ramona's
departure from the ranch ; the willows, near which the lovers
were surprised by the Senora Moreno ; and the thicket of wild
mustard through which Father Salviederra was slowly making
his way when Ramona came suddenly upon him. No detail
of construction or location seems to have escaped notice.

BELLS FROM OLD SPAIN.

Near the chapel, at the northwest end of the garden, stands
a tall frame of heavy beams that support a trio of bells. They
came from Spain, and at one time were hung in the tower of

RAMONAS HOME. *r

one of the Franciscan Missions of California. The largest is
cracked, but is still melodious. It is used to call the people
to chapel. The one by its side is rung for the children to
go to school ; that above is the dinner bell. The support is
entwined with vines ; and behind the bells, a short distance
away, is a bright green olive grove. Listening to the deep
mellow tone of the large bell, and seeing the Senora, followed
by her attendants, walking slowly through the garden to the
chapel, one can easily imagine himself in some foreign country.
It is all un-American and strange. The heavy white walls
of the house, the perfume of orange blossoms and roses,
the organ chants and faint sound of prayers recited in Spanish,
recall days in Spain where, as here, there was peace and quiet
and an existence altogether romantic and poetical.

The surroundings of Camulos are now most beautiful and
attractive. The hillsides are literally covered with wild-flowers
and thickets of wild mustard, while the river winds down the
long wide valley like a silver thread. Lambs and frisky kids
are bleating in the corrals ; the swallows are building their
nests of mud under the eaves of the barn ; the almond blossoms
of a few weeks ago have fallen, and in their place are hairy
little bodies that daily grow in size; on the orange-trees are
clusters of golden fruit and white blossoms ; the roses are in
full bloom ; the grasses are green. All nature is fresh and fair ;
the season is that in which Ramona's new life began.

THE OLD BELLS.

Mrs, HELEN JACKSON'S WRITINGS,

STORIES.

RAMONA. 5oth thousand £1.50

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BITS OF TALK

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BY H. H.

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in a meadow, which the reader lingers over, and the reviewer longs to pluck for a
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And by emperor I mean simply any man to whom it is given to make himself a
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GLIMPSES OF THREE COASTS.

BY

HELEN JACKSON ("H. H.").
i2mo. Cloth. Price, $1.50.

Helen Hunt Jackson has left another monumental memorial of her literary lifs
in the volume entitled " Glimpses of Three Coasts," which is just published and
includes some fourteen papers relating to life in California and Oregon, in Scot
land and England, and on the North Shore of Europe in Germany, Denmark, and
Norway. The sketches are marked by that peculiar charm that characterizes
Mrs. Jackson's interpretations of nature and life. She had the divining gift
of the poet ; she had the power of philosophic reflection ; and these, with her
keen observation and swift sympathies and ardent temperament, make her the
ideal interpreter of a country's life and resources. It is impossible to analyze
such writing. The unknown element, the illusive secret, which is its charm, es
capes one like an impalpable essence. It is true that one may become absorbed
in Mrs. Jackson's sketches as in a novel.

The papers abound in these pictured landscapes. Among the essays here col
lected are " Father Junipero and His Work," "The Present Condition of the
Mission Indians in California," "A Burns Pilgrimage," " Bergen Days," "The
Katrina Saga," " The Village of Oberammergau," and "The Passion Play at
Oberammergau." The work is one of permanent value, and will be greatly
prized — Boston Evening Traveller.

The name of Helen Hunt Jackson has already become an honored and revered
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writing with most earnest purpose to reform a great wrong, every line now seems
a precious legacy to her fellow-countrymen. This volume, though sketches of
travel and short sojourns in other lands, is written with her characteristic bright
ness and appreciation of the romance and beauty of every phase of life and scenery.
It is needless to say that all these sketches are bright and racy, full of his
toric reminiscence, beautiful descriptions of scenery, and liappy appreciation of the
habits, character, and peculiarities of the inhabitants of these countries. Like all
the writings of Mrs. Jackson, it is pure in tone, as well as entertaining, and well
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BETWEEN WHILES.

BY HELEN JACKSON (" H. H.").

AUTHOR OF " RAMONA," " ZEPH," ETC.

16mo. Cloth. Price, $1.25.

"Between Whiles" is something besides a new compilation of work already
known to us. In addition to "The Mystery of Wilhelm Riitter," " Little Bel's
Supplement," "The Captain of the Heather Bell," and "The Prince's Little
Sweetheart," all familiar to us from the magazines, there is in the book "The Inn
of the Golden Pear," now published for the first time, and part of what was
intended for an entire novel. Though understood to be an episode of a much
longer Svory, it is quite complete as it stands, and to read it is a rare pleasure.
Seldom is a short story so full of light, strength, and color; and one cannot tell
which to admire most : the perfect setting of the landscape, the entertaining
quality of the story, or the keen insight into natures very different from the
author's own. It is the history of two misaUiattcts, told with wonderful spirit and
lightness, and with great skill in the comprehension of the fact that a nature
essentially poor and coarse may ape all that is admirable from the mere spirit of
arch and ambitious coquetry. That we can have no more of the little story,
that we can never have any more of any story from this beautiful and versatile
writer, renews the sigh with which we look at the long row of books she gave us
in the past. — The Critic.

The stories are of varying interest, but all bear witness to the faithful work
and rare mental endowments of the writer, one of whose prominent characteristics
was uniform excellence. The plots are ingenious, the style easy and cultured,
the descriptions are graphic, and the moral influence is of the best kind. — Provi
dence Journal.

" Between Whiles " is a volume of short stories which were written by the late
Mrs. Jackson. The beautiful, simple, and entirely unsentimental way in which
Mrs. Jackson sketched her characters always did, and always will, add a subtile
charm to their realism. She treats her heroes or heroines as if they were her
personal friends, and this relationship between them is one of the many charms
of her story which greatly influence the reader. . . . All the stories are full of
grace and sprightliness, and possess the same subtile charm which makes the
author's other works so charming. — Boston Herald.

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Z E P H.

A POSTHUMOUS STORY.

BY HELEN JACKSON (H. H.).
One volume. i6mo. Cloth. Price, $1.25.

" The story is complete in spite of the fact that a few chapters remained still
to be written when the writer succumbed to disease. Begun and mainly com
pleted at Los Angeles last year, the manuscript had been put by to be completed
when returning health should have made continuous labor possible. But health
never returned ; the disease steadily deepened its hold, and a few days before her
death, foreseeing that the end was near, Mrs. Jackson sent the manuscript to
her publisher, with a brief note, enclosing a short outline of the chapters which
remained unwritten. , . . The real lesson of the book lies in Zeph's unconquer
able affection for his worthless wife, and in the beautiful illustration of the divine
trait of forgiveness which he constantly manifested towr.rd her. As a portraiture
of a character moulded and guided by this sentiment, ' Zeph ' will take its place
with the best of Mrs. Jackson's work ; a beautiful plea for love and chanty and
long-suffering, patience and forgiveness, coming from one whose hand now rests
from this and all kindred labors." — New York Christian Union.

" Although the beautiful and pathetic story of Zeph ' was never quite com
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chapters, and it comes to us, therefore, not as a curious fragment, but as an all
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emphasize the nobility of labor from her death-bed. These things that bring
back the gracious spirit from whose loss the heart of the reading wcrld is still
smarting, would lend pathos and interest to ' Zeph ' even if they did not exist in

the story itself. The creation of 'Zeph' is a fitting close to a life of splendid
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for truth and justice, and real instead of formal righteousness. " — New York
Commercial Advertiser.

victory, and to show this did she tell the story of Zeph. Before the story was

sinful creature may come to a faith in a greai. forgiving divine love, in a God as
good as siio has known a man to be, and so in her last hours Mrs. Jackson mada
a brief outline of the plot for the end of the story. As her latest work, this has
a special and pathetic interest." — Boston Paily Advertiser.

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VERSES.

BY H. H.

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is, without doubt, the most highly intellectual of our female poets. . . . The new
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of fervor and of feeling ; more of that lyric sweetness which catches the attention
and makes the song sing itself over and over afterwards in the remembering brain.
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passionate and tender feeling. Among these is the ' Funeral March.' " — N. Y.
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" The poems of this lady have taken a place in public estimation perhaps
higher than that of any living American poetess. . . . They are the thoughts of
a delicate and refined sensibility, which views life through the pure, still atmos
phere of religious fervor, and unites all thought by the tender talisman of love." —
Inter-Ocean.

" Since the days of poor ' L. E. L.,' no woman has sailed into fame under a
flag inscribed with her initials only, until the days of ' H. H.' Here, however,
the parallelism ceases ; for the fresh, strong beauty which pervades these ' Verses'
has nothing in common with the rather languid sweetness of the earlier writer.
Unless I am much mistaken, this enlarged volume, double the size of that origi
nally issued, will place its author not merely above all American poetesses and all
living English poetesses, but above all women who have ever written poetry in
the English language, except Mrs. Browning alone. ' H. H.' has not yet proved
herself equal to Mrs. Browning in range of imagination ; but in strength and depth
the American writer is quite the equal of the English, and in compactness and
iymmetry altogether her superior." — T. W. H. in The Index.

Sold by all booksellers. Mailed, post-paid, by the Pub-

Ushers^

ROBERTS BROTHERS, BOSTON.

Messrs. Roberts Brothers' Pttblications.
A KEY TO " RAMONA."

A. CENTURY OF DISHONOR.

A Sketch of the United States Government's Dealings
with some of the Indian Tribes.

By HELEN JACKSON (H. H.),

AUTHOR OF " RAMONA," " VERSES," "BITS OP' TRAVEL," ETC.

A New Edition. I2mo. pp. 514. Cloth. $1.50.

"The report made by Mrs. Jackson and Mr. Kinney is grave, concise, and
deeply interesting. It is added to the appendix of this new edition of her book.
In this California journey, Mrs. Jackson found the materials for 'Ramona,' the
Indian novel, which was the last important work of her life, and in which nearly
all the incidents are taken from life. In the report of the Mission Indians will
be found the story of the Temecula removal and the tragedy of Alessandro's death
as they appear in ' Ramona.' " — Boston Daily Advertiser.

" A number of striking cases of breach of faith, heartless banishment from
homes confirmed to the Indians by solemn treaties, ar.d wars wantonly provoked
in order to make an excuse for dispossessing them of their lands, are grouped
together, making a panorama of outrage and oppression which will arouse the
humanitarian instincts of the nation to the point of demanding that justice shall
be done toward our savage wards. . . . ' H. H.' succeeds in holding up to the
public eye a series of startling pictures of Indian wrongs, drawn from a centurj
of American history." — New York Tribune.

Mrs. Jackson's Letter of Gratitude to the President.

The following letter from Mrs. Jackson to the President was
written by her four days before her death, Aug. 12, 1885 : —

To GROVER CLEVELAND, President of the United States:

Dear Sir, — From my death-bed I send you a message of heartfelt thanks for
what you have already done for the Indians. I ask you to read my " Century of
Dishonor." I am dying happier for the belief I have that it is your hand that is
destined to strike the first steady blow toward lifting this burden of infamy from
our country, and righting the wrongs of the Indian race.

With respect and gratitude,

HELEN JACKSON.

Sold by all booksellers. Mailed, post-paid, on receipt of
price, by the publishers,

ROBERTS BROTHERS, BOSTON.

Messrs. Roberts Brothers' Publications.

SONNETS AND LYRICS.

BY HELEN JACKSON.

One Volume. Square i6mo. Cloth. Uniform with Mrs. Jackson's
" Verses." Price, $1.00. White cloth, gilt, price, $1.25.

This little volume is instinct with the vitality of the large-hearted and large-
minded woman whose last work it contains. No verse could be further removed
from the self-consciousness and artifice of what is sometimes known as the " art
school ; " and, on the other hand, no verse could be more entirely free from the
unregulated overflow of emotion. ... It is sound in feeling and in art ; there
is a wholesome, healthful tone running through the whole of it, from those earli
est lines published in the " Nation," under the title, so full of meaning to her,
" Lifted Over," to that last splendid address to death in " Habeas Corpus,"
written on one of the last days of her conscious life. ... In the verse contained
in this latest volume there is the same full-pulsed love for all things beautiful :
for mountains and clouds, for blue skies and wide seas, for the wild-flowers
hidden among the recesses of the rocks, and for the great stars that, for human
eyes at least, mark the boundary lines of the universe. There is no aspect of the
natural world from which Mrs. Jackson's large and masterful nature turned
away with fear or repulsion. Winter stirs her imagination no less than summer,
and in a sonnet on " January " she invokes it in lines that are full of deep per
ception of the beauty that lies hidden in its heart. — Christian Union.

The spirit of the little book in which are brought together the last of her
hitherto uncollected pieces is singularly gentle and winning, and it will strengthen
the affection in which the memory of " H. H." is cherished by many hearts. —
New York Tribune.

Sold by all booksellers. Mailed, post-paid, by the
publishers,

ROBERTS BROTHERS, BOSTON.

«H. H.'s" CAT STORIES.

LETTERS FROM A CAT.

Published by her Mistress for the Benefit of all Cats and the Amuso.
ment of Little Children. With seventeen Illustrations by ADDIE LEDYARIX
Sn.all quarto. Cloth, black and gold cover. Price $1.25.

ROBERTS BROTHERS, Publishers.

«H. //.'*" CAT STORIES.

MAMMY TITTLEBACK AND HER FAMILY

A TRUE STORY OF SEVENTEEN CATS.

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY ADDIE LEDYARD.

Small quarto. Cloth, black and gold cover. Price $1.25.
ROBERTS BROTHERS, Publishers.

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