She was a Mexican, but
there were those who said that some Indian blood ran in her veins.
This was not improbable; and it seemed more than ever probable
now, as she stood still by Alessandro's side, her hand on his
shoulder, her eyes fixed in distress on his face. How he had
altered! How well she recollected his lithe figure, his alert motion,
his superb bearing, his handsome face, when she last saw him in
the spring!
"You were away all summer, Alessandro?" she said at last, turning
back to her work.
"Yes," he said: "at the Senora Moreno's."
"So I heard," she said. "That is a fine great place, is it not? Is her
son grown a fine man? He was a lad when I saw him. He went
through here with a drove of sheep once."
"Ay, he is a man now," said Alessandro, and buried his face in his
hands again.
"Poor fellow! I don't wonder he does not want to speak," thought
Mrs. Hartsel. "I'll just let him alone;" and she spoke no more for
some moments.
Alessandro sat still by the fire. A strange apathy seemed to have
seized him; at last he said wearily: "I must be going now.
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