She was now nineteen. She had
never again asked the Senora a question bearing on the forbidden
subject. She had been a good child and said her prayers, and Father
Salvierderra had been always pleased with her, growing more and
more deeply attached to her year by year. But the proper time had
not yet come for the Senora to tell her anything more about her
father and mother. There were few mornings on which the girl did
not think, "Perhaps it may be to-day that she will tell me." But she
would not ask. Every word of that conversation was as vivid in her
mind as it had been the day it occurred; and it would hardly be an
exaggeration to say that during every day of the whole nine years
had deepened in her heart the conviction which had prompted the
child's question, "Did he know that you did not want any
daughter?"
A nature less gentle than Ramona's would have been embittered, or
at least hardened, by this consciousness. But Ramona's was not.
She never put it in words to herself. She accepted it, as those born
deformed seem sometimes to accept the pain and isolation caused
by their deformity, with an unquestioning acceptance, which is as
far above resignation, as resignation is above rebellious repining.
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