The paper of her dead sister's handwriting fell at
her feet. As she walked, her long skirt swept it rustling to and fro.
She stooped, picked it up, read it again, with increasing bitterness.
No softness at the memory of her sister's love for the little child;
no relenting. "Unworthy!" Yes, that was a mild word to apply to
Ramona, now. It was all settled; and when the girl was once out of
the house, the Senora would breathe easier. She and Felipe would
lead their lives together, and Felipe would wed some day. Was
there a woman fair enough, good enough, for Felipe to wed? But
he must wed; and the place would be gay with children's voices,
and Ramona would be forgotten.
The Senora did not know how late it was. "I will tell her to-night,"
she said. "I will lose no time; and now she shall hear who her
mother was!"
It was a strange freak of just impulse in the Senora's angry soul,
which made her suddenly remember that Ramona had had no
supper, and led her to go to the kitchen, get a jug of milk and some
bread, and take them to the room. Turning the key cautiously, that
Felipe might not hear, she opened the door and glided in.
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