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 keyhole, which she proceeded to turn, Ramona 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, kneeling, 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 expression of her countenance deepened each moment. The fiends had possession of the Senora Moreno this morning, and no mistake. A braver heart than Ramona'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 back into its place. Ramona breathed freer. She was not, 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 Ramona 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 Alessandro.' At these words, this name, Ramona 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, Senora Moreno,' 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 Ramona?' she asked, holding it up. Ramona 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.' Ramona's lips parted. She leaned forward, breathless, 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 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 belonging to you.' 'But it hasn't said who was my mother,' cried Ramona. 'Is that all there is in the paper?' The Senora looked stupefied. Was the girl feigning? Did she care nothing that all these jewels, almost a little fortune, were to be lost to her forever? 'Who was your mother?' she exclaimed, scornfully, '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 not, but went on, more and more impetuously. 'And if I am an Indian, why do you object to my marrying Alessandro? 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 me so shamefully as you did last night, when you saw me with Alessandro. You have always hated me. Is my 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 Ramona, with emphasis. 'How know you that, Senora Moreno?' 'He told my sister so,' replied the Senora, reluctantly. She grudged the girl even this much of consolation. 'What was his name?' asked Ramona. 'Phail; Angus Phail,' the Senora 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. Ramona 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. Ramona'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 seemed not insensible to the value and beauty of this costly raiment. Perhaps she would be lured by it. 'All these are yours, Ramona, 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 Senora; 'that came with the things your father sent to my sister when he died.' Ramona'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 my 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. Ramona 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
