Father Salvierderra
could alarm him, but not save him.
And this was the mystery of Ramona. No wonder the Senora
Moreno never told the story. No wonder, perhaps, that she never
loved the child. It was a sad legacy, indissolubly linked with
memories which had in them nothing but bitterness, shame, and
sorrow from first to last.
How much of all this the young Ramona knew or suspected, was
locked in her own breast. Her Indian blood had as much proud
reserve in it as was ever infused into the haughtiest Gonzaga's
veins. While she was yet a little child, she had one day said to the
Senora Moreno, "Senora, why did my mother give me to the
Senora Ortegna?"
Taken unawares, the Senora replied hastily: "Your mother had
nothing whatever to do with it. It was your father."
"Was my mother dead?" continued the child.
Too late the Senora saw her mistake. "I do not know," she replied;
which was literally true, but had the spirit of a lie in it. "I never
saw your mother."
"Did the Senora Ortegna ever see her?" persisted Ramona.
"No, never," answered the Senora, coldly, the old wounds burning
at the innocent child's unconscious touch.
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