also a letter 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, but not save him.
And this was the mystery of Ramona. 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 sorrow 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 Senora 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 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.
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