'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 responsible 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 Ramona; 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 Ramona; he was angry, wearied, perplexed. The Senora studied his face. 'You do not seem satisfied, Felipe dear,' she said tenderly. 'As, indeed, how could you be in this unfortunate state of affairs? But can you think of anything different for us to do?' 'No,' said Felipe, bitterly. 'I can't, that's the worst of it. It is just turning Ramona 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 Ramona 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. Ramona 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 dishonored. But we must submit. As you say, Felipe, I wish it were done with. It would be as well, perhaps, to send for Ramona 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 Ramona alone; but as he knew not how to bring this about he assented to his mother's suggestion. Opening her door, the Senora 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 become of me!' and she stole a reproachful, imploring look at Felipe. He smiled back in a way which reassured her; but the reassurance did not last long. 'Senorita Ramona Ortegna,' began the Senora. 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 Senora might speak to an intruding stranger. 'Senorita 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 consent 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 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 Ramona's understanding him later. Ramona'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 difference; 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 Salvierderra 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 wish to impress it upon you that my son, as head of this house, and I, as my sister's representative, 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 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, turning towards Felipe, her face changing, all her pent-up affection and sorrow looking out of her tearful 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 intend to have any more of this sort of affectionate familiarity between her son and Ramona. '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 Ramona; '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 Temecula. I thought it would be better for him to be away for a day or two. He is to come back immediately. Perhaps he will be back day after to-morrow.' 'Did he want to go? What did he go for? Why didn't you let me go with him? Oh, why, why did he go?' cried Ramona. '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 now; so he ordered him to go away, and Alessandro obeyed.' Like a wounded creature at bay, Ramona turned
