th 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 liked. Ramona never went. How many times she had longed
to go to Santa Barbara, or to Monterey, or Los Angeles; but to have
asked the Senora's permission to accompany her on some of her now
infrequent journeys to these places would have required more courage
than Ramona possessed. It was now three years since she left the convent
school, but she was still as fresh from the hands of the nuns as on the
day when, with loving tears, they had kissed her in farewell. The few
romances and tales and bits of verse she had