a sitting posture, with her head leaning 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's illness and Juan Can's, there was not a moment without something to be done, or some perplexing question to be settled, and above all, and through all, the terrible sorrow. Ramona 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 perceiving 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 imaginations of the future which so smote her with terror. In the Senora's presence, Ramona 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 himself 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 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, certainly not,' he said; 'but could no one else take your place with the band?' Hearing these words, Ramona came to the window, and 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, Alessandro. The Senor 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!' Ramona cried. 'You are good, to stay. The Senora will see that it is no loss to you;' and she flew back to the house. 'It is not for the wages, Senorita,' Alessandro began; but Ramona 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 Salvierderra. '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 Rey, 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 Senor 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 go and see him; I hear he is 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'll 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 Salvierderra, 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 Mission. 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 Alessandro watched his face anxiously. 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 anything 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 Ramirez, of Los Angeles, when they marked all the boundaries of Senor Valdez's estate. They had many instruments 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 Ramirez, 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
