IT came. And when it came, it fell out worse for Ramona than Margarita's most hopes had pictured; but Margarita had no hand in it. It was the Senora herself.  
Since Felipe had so far gained as to be able to be dressed, sit in his chair on the , and walk about the house and garden a little, the Senora, at ease in her mind about him, had resumed her old habit of long, lonely walks on the place. It had been well said by her servants, that there was not a blade of grass on the estate that the Senora had not seen. She knew every inch of her land. She had a special purpose in walking over it now. She was carefully examining to see whether she could afford to sell to the Ortegas a piece of pasture-land which they greatly desired to buy, as it joined a pasturage of theirs. This bit of land lay farther from the house than the Senora realized, and it had taken more time than she thought it would, to go over it; and it was already sunset on this eventful day, when, hurrying home, she turned off from the highway into the same path in which Father Salvierderra had met Ramona in the spring. There was no difficulty now in getting through the mustard . It was and dry, and had been by cattle. The Senora walked rapidly, but it was dusky when she reached the ; so dusky that she saw nothing—and she stepped so lightly on the smooth brown path that she made no sound—until suddenly, face to face with a man and a woman locked in each other's arms, she halted, stepped back a pace, gave a cry of surprise, and, in the same second, recognized the faces of the two, who, stricken dumb, stood apart, each gazing into her face with terror.
 
Strangely enough, it was Ramona who first. Terror for herself had stricken her dumb; terror for Alessandro gave her a voice.
 
“Senora,” she began.
 
“Silence! creature!” cried the Senora. “Do not dare to speak! Go to your room!”
 
Ramona did not move.
 
“As for you,” the Senora continued, turning to Alessandro, “you,”—she was about to say, “You are discharged from my service from this hour,” but herself in time, said,—“you will answer to Senor Felipe. Out of my sight!” And the Senora Moreno actually, for once in her life beside herself with rage, stamped her foot on the ground. “Out of my sight!” she repeated.
 
Alessandro did not stir, except to turn towards Ramona with an inquiring look. He would run no risk of doing what she did not wish. He had no idea what she would think it best to do in this terrible .
 
“Go, Alessandro,” said Ramona, calmly, still looking the Senora full in the eye. Alessandro obeyed; before the words had left her lips, he had walked away.
 
Ramona's composure, and Alessandro's waiting for further orders than her own before stirring from the spot, were too much for Senora Moreno. A , such as she had not felt since she was young, took possession of her. As Ramona opened her lips again, saying, “Senora,” the Senora did a shameful deed; she struck the girl on the mouth, a cruel blow.
 
“Speak not to me!” she cried again; and seizing her by the arm, she pushed rather than dragged her up the garden-walk.
 
“Senora, you hurt my arm,” said Ramona, still in the same calm voice. “You need not hold me. I will go with you. I am not afraid.”
 
Was this Ramona? The Senora, already ashamed, let go the arm, and stared in the girl's face. Even in the twilight she could see upon it an expression of transcendent peace, and a resolve of which no one would have thought it capable. “What does this mean?” thought the Senora, still weak, and trembling all over, from rage. “The hussy, the hypocrite!” and she seized the arm again.
 
This time Ramona did not , but submitted to being led like a prisoner, pushed into her own room, the door slammed violently and locked on the outside.
 
All of which Margarita saw. She had known for an hour that Ramona and Alessandro were at the willows, and she had been consumed with at the Senora's prolonged absence. More than once she had gone to Felipe, and asked with assumed interest if he were not hungry, and if he and the Senorita would not have their supper.
 
“No, no, not till the Senora returns,” Felipe had answered. He, too, happened this time to know where Ramona and Alessandro were. He knew also where the Senora had gone, and that she would be late home; but he did not know that there would be any chance of her returning by way of the willows at the ; if he had known it, he would have to summon Ramona.
 
When Margarita saw Ramona shoved into her room by the pale and trembling Senora, saw the key turned, taken out, and dropped into the Senora's pocket, she threw her over her head, and ran into the back porch. Almost a seized her. She remembered in a flash how often Ramona had helped her in times gone by,—sheltered her from the Senora's displeasure. She the torn altar-cloth. “Holy ! what will be done to her now?” she exclaimed, under her breath. Margarita had never conceived of such an as this. Disgrace, and a sharp reprimand, and a of all relations with Alessandro,—this was all Margarita had meant to draw down on Ramona's head. But the Senora looked as if she might kill her.
 
“She always did hate her, in her heart,” reflected Margarita; “she shan't starve her to death, anyhow. I'll never stand by and see that. But it must have been something shameful the Senora saw, to have brought her to such a pass as this;” and Margarita's again got the better of her sympathy. “Good enough for her. No more than she deserved. An honest fellow like Alessandro, that would make a good husband for any girl!” Margarita's short-lived remorse was over. She was an enemy again.
 
It was an odd thing, how identical were Margarita's and the Senora's view and of the situation. The Senora looking at it from above, and Margarita looking at it from below, each was sure, and they were both equally sure, that it could be nothing more nor less than a disgraceful . Mistress and maid were alike either of or of believing the truth.
 
As ill luck would have it,—or was it good luck?—Felipe also had witnessed the scene in the garden-walk. Hearing voices, he had looked out of his window, and, almost doubting the evidence of his senses, had seen his mother violently dragging Ramona by the arm,—Ramona pale, but strangely ; his mother with rage and fury in her white face. The sight told its own tale to Felipe. his forehead with his hand, he out: “Fool that I was, to let her be surprised; she has come on them unawares; now she will never, never forgive it!” And Felipe threw himself on his bed, to think what should be done. Presently he heard his mother's voice, still , calling his name. He remained silent, sure she would soon seek him in his room. When she entered, and, seeing him on the bed, came swiftly towards him, saying, “Felipe, dear, are you ill?” he replied in a feeble voice, “No, mother, only tired a little to-night;” and as she over him, anxious, alarmed, he threw his arms around her neck and kissed her warmly. “Mother mia!” he said , “what should I do without you?” The , the loving words, acted like oil on the troubled waters. They restored the Senora as nothing else could. What mattered anything, so long as she had her adoring and adorable son! And she would not speak to him, now that he was so tired, of this disgraceful and matter of Alessandro. It could wait till morning. She would send him his supper in his room, and he would not miss Ramona, perhaps.
 
“I will send your supper here, Felipe,” she said; “you must not ; you have been walking too much. Lie still.” And kissing him affectionately, she went to the dining-room, where Margarita, vainly trying to look as if nothing had happened, was standing, ready to serve supper. When the Senora entered, with her composed, and in her ordinary tones said, “Margarita, you can take Senor Felipe's supper into his room; he is lying down, and will not get up; he is tired,” Margarita was ready to doubt if she had not been in a nightmare dream. Had she, or had she not, within the last half-hour, seen the Senora, shaking and speechless with rage, push the Senorita Ramona into her room, and lock her up there? She was so bewildered that she stood still and gazed at the Senora, with her mouth wide open.
 
“What are you staring at, girl?” asked the Senora, so sharply that Margarita jumped.
 
“Oh, nothing, nothing, Senora! And the Senorita, will she come to supper? Shall I call her?” she said.
 
The Senora eyed her. Had she seen? Could she have seen? The Senora Moreno was herself again. So long as Ramona was under her roof, no matter what she herself might do or say to the girl, no servant should treat her with disrespect, or know that aught was wrong.
 
“The Senorita is not well,” she said coldly. “She is in her room. I myself will take her some supper later, if she wishes it. Do not disturb her.” And the Senora returned to Felipe.
 
Margarita inwardly, and proceeded to clear the table she had spread with such malicious punctuality two short hours before. In those two short hours how much had happened!
 
“Small appetite for supper will our Senorita have, I reckon,” said the bitter Margarita, “and the Senor Alessandro also! I'm curious to see how he will carry himself.”
 
But her curiosity was not gratified. Alessandro came not to the kitchen. The last of the herdsmen had eaten and gone; it was past nine o'clock, and no Alessandro. Slyly Margarita ran out and searched in some of the places where she knew he was in the habit of going; but Alessandro was not to be found. Once she brushed so near his hiding-place that he thought he was discovered, and was on the point of speaking, but luckily held his peace, and she passed on. Alessandro was hid behind the geranium at the door; sitting on the ground, with his knees up to his chin, watching Ramona's window. He intended to stay there all night. He felt that he might be needed: if Ramona wanted him, she would either open her window and call, or would come out and go down through the garden-walk to the willows. In either case, he would see her from the hiding-place he had chosen. He was racked by his emotions; mad with joy one minute, sick at heart with the next. Ramona loved him. She had told him so. She had said she would go away with him and be his wife. The words had but just passed her lips, at that dreadful moment when the Senora appeared in their presence. As he lived the scene over again, he re-experienced the joy and the terror equally.
 
What was not that terrible Senora capable of doing? Why did she look at him and at Ramona with such scorn? Since she knew that the Senorita was half Indian, why should she think it so dreadful a thing for her to marry an Indian man? It did not once enter into Alessandro's mind, that the Senora could have had any other thought, seeing them as she did, in each other's arms. And again what had he to give to Ramona? Could she live in a house such as he must live in,—live as the Temecula women lived? No! for her sake he must leave his people; must go to some town, must do—he knew not what—something to earn more money. seized him as he pictured to himself Ramona suffering . The more he thought of the future in this light, the more his joy faded and his fear grew. He had never had sufficient hope that she could be his, to look forward thus to the practical details of life; he had only gone on loving, and in a vague way dreaming and hoping; and now,—now, in a moment, all had been changed; in a moment he had spoken, and she had spoken, and such words once spoken, there was no going back; and he had put his arms around her, and felt her head on his shoulder, and kissed her! Yes, he, Alessandro, had kissed the Senorita Ramona, and she had been glad of it, and had kissed him on the lips, as no kisses a man unless she will with him,—him, Alessandro! Oh, no wonder the man's brain whirled, as he sat there in the silent darkness, wondering, afraid, helpless; his love from him, in the very instant of their first kiss,—wrenched from him, and he himself ordered, by one who had the right to order him, to begone! What could an Indian do against a Moreno!
 
Would Felipe help him? Ay, there was Felipe! That Felipe was his friend, Alessandro knew with a knowledge as sure as the wild partridge's instinct for the shelter of her brood; but could Felipe move the Senora? Oh, that terrible Senora! What would become of them?
 
As in the instant of drowning, men are said to review in a second the whole course of their lives, so in this moment of Alessandro's love there flashed through his mind vivid pictures of every word and act of Ramona's since he first knew her. He recollected the tone in which she had said, and the surprise with which he heard her say it, at the time of Felipe's fall, “You are Alessandro, are you not?” He heard again her soft-whispered prayers the first night Felipe slept on the veranda. He recalled her tender because the shearers had had no dinner; the evident terribleness to her of a person going one whole day without food. “O God! will she always have food each day if she comes with me?” he said. And at the bare thought he was ready to flee away from her forever. Then he recalled her look and her words only a few hours ago, when he first told her he loved her; and his heart took courage. She had said, “I know you love me, Alessandro, and I am glad of it,” and had lifted her eyes to his, with all the love that a woman's eyes can carry; and when he threw his arms around her, she had of her own accord come closer, and laid one hand on his shoulder, and turned her face to his. Ah, what else mattered! There was the whole world; if she loved him like this, nothing could make them wretched; his love would be enough for her,—and for him hers was an empire.
 
It was indeed true, though neither the Senora nor Margarita would have believed it, that this had been the first word of love ever spoken between Alessandro and Ramona, the first caress ever given, the first moment of unreserve. It had come about, as lovers' first words, first , are so apt to do, unexpectedly, with no more premonition, at the instant, than there is of the instant of the opening of a flower. Alessandro had been speaking to Ramona of the conversation Felipe had held with him in regard to rema............