t lived almost wholly apart from the inhabitants of the
valley. What intercourse they had was mostly with the native Indian
population--the poor Tagnos, who felt but little of this anti-American
feeling.

If we enter the rancho of Carlos we shall see the fair-haired Rosita
seated upon a _petate_, and engaged in weaving rebosos. The piece of
mechanism which serves her for a loom consists of only a few pieces of
wood rudely carved. So simple is it that it is hardly just to call it a
machine. Yet those long bluish threads stretched in parallel lines, and
vibrating to the touch of her nimble fingers, will soon be woven into a
beautiful scarf to cover the head of some coquettish poblana of the
town. None in the valley can produce such rebosos as the cibolero's
sister. So much as he can beat all the youth in feats of horsemanship,
so much does she excel in the useful art which is her source of
subsistence.

There are but two rooms in the rancho, and that is one more than will be
found in most of its fellows. But the delicate sentiment still exists
in the Saxon mind. The family of the cibolero are not yet Indianised.

The kitchen is the larger apartment and the more cheerful, because
lighted by the open door. In it you will see a small "brazero," or
altar-like fireplace--half-a-dozen earthen "ollas," shaped like urns--
some gourd-shell cups and bowls--a tortilla-stone, with its short legs
and inclined surface--some _petates_ to sit upon--some buffalo-robes for
a similar purpose--a bag of maize--some bunches of dried herbs, and
strings of red and green chile--but no pictures of saints; and perhaps
it is the only house in the whole valley where your eye will _not_ be
gratified by a sight of these. Truly the family of the cibolero are
"hereticos."

Not last you will see an old woman seated near the fire, and smoking
_punche_ in a pipe! A strange old woman is she, and strange no doubt
her history but that is revealed to no one. Her sharp, lank features;
her blanched, yet still luxuriant hair; the wild gleam of her eyes; all
render her appearance singular. Others than the ignorant could not fail
to fancy her a being different from the common order. No wonder, then,
that these regard her as "una hechicera!"

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.

Rosita knelt upon the floor, passing her little hand-shuttle through the
cotton-woof. Now she sang--and sweetly she sang--some merry air of the
American backwoods that had been taug