The sun rose and let a
flood of work-a-day light on the whole place.
Margarita ran and unlocked the chapel door, putting up a heartfelt
thanksgiving to Saint Francis and the Senorita, as she saw the
snowy altar-cloth in its place, looking, from that distance at least,
as good as new.
The Indians and the shepherds, and laborers of all sorts, were
coming towards the chapel. The Senora, with her best black silk
handkerchief bound tight around her forehead, the ends hanging
down each side of her face, making her look like an Assyrian
priestess, was descending the veranda steps, Felipe at her side; and
Father Salvierderra had already entered the chapel before Ramona
appeared, or Alessandro stirred from his vantage-post of
observation at the willows.
When Ramona came out from the door she bore in her hands a
high silver urn filled with ferns. She had been for many days
gathering and hoarding these. They were hard to find, growing
only in one place in a rocky canon, several miles away.
As she stepped from the veranda to the ground, Alessandro walked
slowly up the garden-walk, facing her.
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