light of Ferdinand Ramero, and
listened to the story of Jondo's life.

When Little Blue Flower left me sitting beside Fort Marcy's wall my
mind went back in swift review over the flight of days since Beverly
Clarenden and I had come from Cincinnati. I recalled the first meeting
of Eloise with my cousin. How easily they had renewed acquaintance. I
had been surprised and embarrassed and awkward when I found her and
Little Blue Flower down by the Flat Rock below St. Ann's, in the Moon of
the Peach Blossom. I remembered how I had monopolized all of her time in
the days that followed, leaving good-natured Bev to look after the
little Indian girl who never really seemed like an Indian to him. And
keen-piercing as an arrow came now the memory of that midnight hour when
I had seen the two in the little side porch of the Clarenden home, and
again I heard the sorrowful words:

"Oh, Beverly, it breaks my heart."

Eloise had just seen Beverly kiss Little Blue Flower in the shadows of
the porch. And all the while, good-hearted, generous boy that he was, he
had never tried to push his suit with her, had made her love him more,
no doubt, by letting me have full command of all of her time, while he
forgot himself in showing courtesy to the Indian girl, because Bev was
first of all a gentleman. I thought of that dear hour in the church of
San Miguel. Of course, Eloise was glad to find me there--poor, hunted,
frightened child! She would have been as glad, no doubt, to have found
big Bill Banney or Rex Krane, and I had thought her eyes held something
just for me that night. She had not seen Beverly at the chapel beside
the San Christobal River, and to me she had not given even a parting
glance when she went away. If she had cared for me at all she would not
have left me so. And I had climbed the tortuous trail with her and stood
beside her in the zone of sanctuary safety that Father Josef had thrown
about us two.

These things were clear enough to me, but when I tried to think again of
all that Little Blue Flower had said an hour ago my mind went numb:

"Her mother knew her, but only as the little Eloise long lost and never
missed till now. The mother, too, was very beautiful, and young in face,
and child-like in her helplessness. The lonely ranch-house, old, and
strong as a fort, girt round by tall canon walls, nestled in a grassy
open place; and not a comfort had been denied the woman there. For
Gloria Ramero, Ferdinand's wife, had