are of a certain
mental apathy, had not enviously regarded the exploits of the "smart"
Americans. If these others "went up," what did it matter? All one
could do if one were Mexican was to accept defeat with dignity, and
reflect upon the fact that things would be different if Spanish and not
English were the language of the school.

When Lola, however, one of themselves by reason of her color and her
fluency in their idiom, displayed an ability to master those
remorseless obscurities of spelling and arithmetic which had seemed
sufficient to dethrone reason in any but a Saxon mind, then the peon
children began to find some personal satisfaction in her achievements.

Whenever Lola went above Jimmy Adkins, the mine boss's boy, and Edith
May Jonas, the liveryman's only daughter, every Mexican face recorded a
slow smile of triumph. "_'Sta 'ueno!_" they would whisper, watching
Edith May, who upon such occasions was wont to enliven things by
bursting into tears, and who commonly brought upon the following day a
note from her mother, stating that Edith May must be excused for
missing in spelling because she had not been at all well and had
misunderstood the word.

The next two years also mitigated much of the constraint which had
marked Miss Combs's relations with Lola. After the episode of the
letter, Lola never asked news of her father. Insensibly she came to
understand that if he wrote at all he wrote seldom, and solely upon the
matter of her expenses. And naturally she ceased clinging warmly to the
thought of his love for her. His silence and absence were not spurs to
affection, although she dwelt gratefully upon the fact that he should
lavish so much upon her.

Jane's money was lessening, but none of Lola's wishes had as yet been
baffled. The girl had a sort of barbaric love of brightness and
softness; and one day, as she looked over some fabrics for which Jane,
spurred by the approach of the vacation and the fact that Lola was to
have a part in the closing exercises of school, had sent to Denver, the
girl said suddenly, "How good my father is to me, _tia_!"

Long before, she had asked Jane what she should call her, and Jane had
said, "Maybe you better call me aunt."

"I will do it in Mexican, then," said Lola. "It sounds more ripe." She
meant mellow, no doubt. Now, as she fingered the pretty muslin, she
seemed to gather resolution to speak of something which had its
difficulties. "_Tia_," she pursued, "he is well o