FELIPE gained but slowly. The relapse was indeed, as Father Salvierderra had said, worse than the original attack. Day after day he lay with little apparent change; no pain, but a weakness so great that it was almost harder to bear than sharp suffering would have been. Nearly every day Alessandro was sent for to play or sing to him. It seemed to be the only thing that roused him from his half state. Sometimes he would talk with Alessandro on matters relative to the estate, and show for a few moments something like his old ; but he was soon tired, and would close his eyes, saying: “I will speak with you again about this, Alessandro; I am going to sleep now. Sing.”  
The Senora, seeing Felipe's of Alessandro's presence, soon came to have a warm feeling towards him herself; moreover, she greatly liked his quiet . There was hardly a surer road to the Senora's favor, for man or woman, than to be of speech and reserved in . She had an instinct of kinship to all that was silent, self-contained, mysterious, in human nature. The more she observed Alessandro, the more she trusted and approved him. Luckily for Juan Can, he did not know how matters were working in his mistress's mind. If he had, he would have been in a fever of , and would have got at swords' points with Alessandro immediately. On the contrary, all of the real situation of affairs, and never quite sure that the Mexican he might not any day hear of his misfortune, and appear, asking for the place, he took every opportunity to praise Alessandro to the Senora. She never visited his bedside that he had not something to say in favor of the lad, as he called him.
 
“Truly, Senora,” he said again and again, “I do where the lad got so much knowledge, at his age. He is like an old hand at the sheep business. He knows more than any shepherd I have,—a deal more; and it is not only of sheep. He has had experience, too, in the handling of cattle. Juan Jose has been beholden to him more than once, already, for a remedy of which he knew not. And such , withal. I knew not that there were such Indians; surely there cannot be many such.”
 
“No, I fancy not,” the Senora would reply, absently. “His father is a man of intelligence, and has trained his son well.”
 
“There is nothing he is not ready to do,” continued Alessandro's eulogist. “He is as handy with tools as if he had been 'prenticed to a carpenter. He has made me a new splint for my leg, which was a relief like salve to a wound, so much easier was it than before. He is a good lad,—a good lad.”
 
None of these sayings of Juan's were thrown away on the Senora. More and more closely she watched Alessandro; and the very thing which Juan had feared, and which he had thought to by having Alessandro his temporary substitute, was slowly coming to pass. The idea was working in the Senora's mind, that she might do a worse thing than engage this young, strong, active, willing man to remain in her employ. The possibility of an Indian's being so born and placed that he would hesitate about becoming permanently a servant even to the Senora Moreno, did not occur to her. However, she would do nothing hastily. There would be plenty of time before Juan Can's leg was well. She would study the young man more. In the mean time, she would cause Felipe to think of the idea, and propose it.
 
So one day she said to Felipe: “What a voice that Alessandro has, Felipe. We shall miss his music sorely when he goes, shall we not?”
 
“He's not going!” exclaimed Felipe, startled.
 
“Oh, no, no; not at present. He agreed to stay till Juan Can was about again; but that will be not more than six weeks now, or eight, I suppose. You forget how time has flown while you have been lying here ill, my son.”
 
“True, true!” said Felipe. “Is it really a month already?” and he sighed.
 
“Juan Can tells me that the lad has a marvellous knowledge for one of his years,” continued the Senora. “He says he is as skilled with cattle as with sheep; knows more than any shepherd we have on the place. He seems wonderfully quiet and well-mannered. I never saw an Indian who had such behavior.”
 
“Old Pablo is just like him,” said Felipe. “It was natural enough, living so long with Father Peyri. And I've seen other Indians, too, with a good deal the same manner as Alessandro. It's born in them.”
 
“I can't bear the idea of Alessandro's going away. But by that time you will be well and strong,” said the Senora; “you would not miss him then, would you?”
 
“Yes, I would, too!” said Felipe, . He was still weak enough to be childish. “I like him about me. He's worth a dozen times as much as any man we've got. But I don't suppose money could hire him to stay on any .”
 
“Were you thinking of hiring him permanently?” asked the Senora, in a surprised tone. “I don't doubt you could do so if you wished. They are all poor, I suppose; he would not work with the shearers if he were not poor.”
 
“Oh, it isn't that,” said Felipe, impatiently. “You can't understand, because you've never been among them. But they are just as proud as we are. Some of them, I mean; such men as old Pablo. They sheep for money just as I sell wool for money. There isn't so much difference. Alessandro's men in the band obey him, and all the men in the village obey Pablo, just as as my men here obey me. Faith, much more so!” added Felipe, laughing. “You can't understand it, mother, but it's so. I am not at all sure I could offer Alessandro Assis money enough to him to stay here as my servant.”
 
The Senora's in scorn. “No, I do not understand it,” she said. “Most certainly I do not understand it. Of what is it that these noble lords of villages are so proud? their ancestors,—naked less than a hundred years ago? Naked savages they themselves too, to-day, if we had not come here to teach and them. The race was never meant for anything but servants. That was all the Fathers ever expected to make of them,—good, faithful Catholics, and in the fields. Of course there are always exceptional instances, and I think, myself, Alessandro is one. I don't believe, however, he is so exceptional, but that if you were to offer him, for instance, the same wages you pay Juan Can, he would jump at the chance of staying on the place.”
 
“Well, I shall think about it,” said Felipe. “I'd like nothing better than to have him here always. He's a fellow I like. I'll think about it.”
 
Which was all the Senora wanted done at present.
 
Ramona had chanced to come in as this conversation was going on. Hearing Alessandro's name she seated herself at the window, looking out, but listening intently. The month had done much for Alessandro with Ramona, though neither Alessandro nor Ramona knew it. It had done this much,—that Ramona knew always when Alessandro was near, that she trusted him, and that she had ceased to think of him as an Indian any more than when she thought of Felipe, she thought of him as a Mexican. Moreover, seeing the two men frequently together, she had admitted to herself, as Margarita had done before her, that Alessandro was far the handsomer man of the two. This Ramona did not like to admit, but she could not help it.
 
“I wish Felipe were as tall and strong as Alessandro,” she said to herself many a time. “I do not see why he could not have been. I wonder if the Senora sees how much handsomer Alessandro is.”
 
When Felipe said that he did not believe he could offer Alessandro Assis money enough to tempt him to stay on the place, Ramona opened her lips suddenly, as if to speak, then changed her mind, and remained silent. She had sometimes the Senora by taking part in conversations between her and her son.
 
Felipe saw the motion, but he also thought it wiser to wait till after his mother had left the room, before he asked Ramona what she was on the point of saying. As soon as the Senora went out, he said, “What was it, Ramona, you were going to say just now?”
 
Ramona colored. She had not to say it.
 
“Tell me, Ramona,” persisted Felipe. “You were going to say something about Alessandro's staying; I know you were.”
 
Ramona did not answer. For the first time in her life she found herself embarrassed before Felipe.
 
“Don't you like Alessandro?” said Felipe.
 
“Oh, yes!” replied Ramona, with instant eagerness. “It was not that at all. I like him very much;” But then she stopped.
 
“Well, what is it, then? Have you heard anything on the place about his staying?”
 
“Oh, no, no; not a word!” said Ramona. “Everybody understands that he is here only till Juan Can gets well. But you said you did not believe you could offer him money enough to tempt him to stay.”
 
“Well,” said Felipe, inquiringly, “I do not. Do you?”
 
“I think he would like to stay,” said Ramona, hesitatingly. “That was what I was going to say.”
 
“What makes you think so?” asked Felipe.
 
“I don't know,” Ramona said, still more hesitatingly. Now that she had said it, she was sorry. Felipe looked at her. Hesitancy like this, doubts, as to her impressions, were not characteristic of Ramona. A flitting something which was far from being suspicion or , and yet was of to them both, went through Felipe's mind,—went through so swiftly that he was scarce conscious of it; if he had been, he would have scorned himself. Jealous of an Indian sheep-shearers Impossible! Nevertheless, the flitting something left a trace, and prevented Felipe from forgetting the trivial incident; and after this, it was certain that Felipe would observe Ramona more closely than he had done; would weigh her words and actions; and if she should seem by a shade altered in either, would watch still more closely. were closing around Ramona. Three watchers of her every look and act,—Alessandro in pure love, Margarita in jealous hate, Felipe in love and perplexity. Only the Senora observed her not. If she had, matters might have turned out very differently, for the Senora was clear-sighted, rarely mistaken in her reading of people's , never long deceived; but her observing and powers were not in focus, so far as Ramona was concerned. The girl was curiously outside of the Senora's real life. Shelter, food, clothes, all external needs, in so far as her means allowed, the Senora would, without fail, provide for the child her sister had left in her hands as a trust; but a personal relation with 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 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, , 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 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 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 , 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 . 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 read were of the most innocent and old-fashioned kind, and left her hardly less childlike than before. This childlikeness, combined with her happy , had kept her singularly contented in her life. She had fed the birds, taken care of the flowers, kept the in order, helped in light household work, , sung, and, as the Senora eight years before had bade her do, said her prayers and pleased Father Salvierderra.
 
By processes strangely unlike, she and Alessandro had both been kept strangely free from thoughts of love and of marriage,—he by living in the shadow, and she by living in the sun; his heart and thoughts filled with perplexities and fears, hers filled by a routine of light and easy tasks, and the outdoor pleasures of a child.
 
As the days went on, and Felipe still remained feeble, Alessandro a bold stroke. Each time that he went to Felipe's room to sing or to play, he felt himself oppressed by the air. An hour of it made him uncomfortable. The room was large, and had two windows, and the door was never shut; yet the air seemed to Alessandro .
 
“I should be as ill as the Senor Felipe, if I had to stay in that room, and a bed is a weakening thing, enough to pull the strongest man down,” said Alessandro to Juan Can one day. “Do you think I should anger them if I asked them to let me bring Senor Felipe out to the and put him on a bed of my making? I'd my head I'd put him on his feet in a week.”
 
“And if you did that, you might ask the Senora for the half of the estate, and get it, lad,” replied Juan, Seeing the hot blood darkening in Alessandro's face at his words, he hastened to add, “Do not be so hot-blooded. I meant not that you would ask any reward for doing it; I was only thinking what joy it would be to the Senora to see Senor Felipe on his feet again. It has often crossed my thoughts that if he did not get up from this sickness the Senora would not be long behind him. It is but for him that she lives. And who would have the estate in that case, I have never been able to find out.”
 
“Would it not be the Senorita?” asked Alessandro.
 
Juan Can laughed an ugly laugh. “Ha, ha! Let the Senora hear you say that!” he said. “Faith, it will be little the Senorita gets more than enough for her bread, may be, out of the Moreno estate. Hark ye, Alessandro; if you will not tell, I will tell you the story of the Senorita. You know she is not of the Moreno blood; is no relation of theirs.”
 
“Yes,” said Alessandro; “Margarita has said to me that the Senorita Ramona was only the foster-child of the Senora Moreno.”
 
“Foster-child!” repeated Juan Can, contemptuously, “there is something to the tale I know not, nor ever could find out; for when I was in Monterey the Ortegna house was shut, and I could not get speech of any of their people. But this much I know, that it was the Senora Ortegna that had the girl first in keeping; and there was a scandalous tale about her birth.”
 
If Juan Can's eyes had not been with old age, he would have seen that in Alessandro's face which would have made him choose his words more carefully. But he went on: “It was after the Senora Ortegna was buried, that our Senora returned, bringing this child with her; and I do assure you, lad, I have seen the Senora look at her many a time as if she wished her dead. And it is a shame, for she was always as fair and good a child as the saints ever saw. But a stain on the blood, a stain on the blood, lad, is a bitter thing in a house. This much I know, her mother was an Indian. Once when I was in the chapel, behind the big Saint Joseph there, I overheard the Senora............