It was in early autumn she sat
plaiting this cradle. The ground around was strewn with wild
grapes drying; the bees were feasting on them in such clouds that
Ramona rose frequently from her work to drive them away, saying,
as she did so, "Good bees, make our honey from something else;
we gain nothing if you drain our grapes for it; we want these
grapes for the winter;" and as she spoke, her imagination sped
fleetly forward to the winter, The Virgin must have forgiven her,
to give her again the joy of a child in her arms. Ay, a joy! Spite of
poverty, spite of danger, spite of all that cruelty and oppression
could do, it would still be a joy to hold her child in her arms.
The baby was born before winter came. An old Indian woman, the
same whose house they had hired in Saboba, had come up to live
with Ramona. She was friendless now, her daughter having died,
and she thankfully came to be as a mother to Ramona. She was
ignorant and feeble but Ramona saw in her always the picture of
what her own mother might perchance be, wandering, suffering,
she knew not what or where; and her yearning, filial instinct found
sad pleasure in caring for this lonely, childless, aged one.
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