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 poor, I suppose; he would not work with the shearers if he were not poor.' 'Oh, it isn'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 isn'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 instances, 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'll think about it.' Which was all the Senora wanted done at present. Ramona had chanced to come in as this conversation was going on. Hearing Alessandro's name she seated herself at the window, looking out, but listening intently. The month had done much for Alessandro with Ramona, though neither Alessandro nor Ramona knew it. It had done this much,—that Ramona knew always when Alessandro was near, that she trusted him, and that she had ceased to think of him 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 Ramona did not like to admit, but she could not help it. 'I wish Felipe were as tall and strong as Alessandro,' 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, Ramona opened her lips suddenly, as if to speak, then changed her mind, and remained 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 Ramona what she was on the point of saying. As soon as the Senora went out, he said, 'What was it, Ramona, you were going to say just now?' Ramona colored. She had decided not to say it. 'Tell me, Ramona,' persisted Felipe. 'You were going to say something about Alessandro's staying; I know you were.' Ramona did not answer. For the first time in her life she found herself embarrassed before Felipe. 'Don't you like Alessandro?' said Felipe. '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 anything on the place about his staying?' 'Oh, no, no; not a word!' said Ramona. 'Everybody 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, hesitatingly. 'That was what I was going to say.' 'What makes you think so?' asked Felipe. 'I don't know,' Ramona said, still more hesitatingly. 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 characteristic of Ramona. 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-shearers Impossible! Nevertheless, the flitting something left a trace, and prevented Felipe from forgetting the trivial incident; and after this, it was certain that Felipe would 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 watchers of her every look and act,—Alessandro in pure love, Margarita in jealous hate, Felipe in love and perplexity. Only the Senora observed her not. If she had, matters might have turned out very differently, for the Senora was clear-sighted, rarely mistaken in her reading of people's motives, never long deceived; but her observing and discriminating powers were not in focus, so far as Ramona 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, without 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 acquaintance, 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 remonstrating 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 answer. 'But in this case it does not exist. I shall never love Ramona. Only at your command, and to save my sister a sorrow, I took her. I will never 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 Ramona 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 Ramona, who had been all these years, save for Felipe, lonely in the Senora Moreno's house. Three watchers of Ramona now. If there had been a fourth, and that fourth herself, matters might have turned out differently. But how should Ramona watch? How should Ramona know? Except for her two years at school with the nuns, she had never been away from the Senora'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
