andro. They were very different; miserable looking; they could
not read nor write, and they seemed to have no ambition."

"That is the trouble," said Alessandro, "with so many of them; it is
with my father's people, too. They say, 'What is the use?' My father
gets in despair with them, because they will not learn better. He gives
them a great deal, but they do not seem to be any better off for it.
There is only one other man in our village who can read and write,
besides my father and me, Senorita; and yet my father is all the time
begging them to come to his house and learn of him. But they say they
have no time; and indeed there is much truth in that, Senorita. You see
everybody has troubles, Senorita."

Ramona had been listening with sorrowful face. All this was new to her.
Until to-night, neither she nor Alessandro had spoken of private and
personal matters.

"Ah, but these are real troubles," she said. "I do not think mine were
real troubles at all. I wish I could do something for your people,
Alessandro. If the village were only near by, I could teach them, could
I not? I could teach them to read. The Sisters always said, that to
teach the ignorant and the poor was the noblest work one could do. I
wish I could teach your people. Have you any relatives there
besides your father? Is there any one in the village that you--love,
Alessandro?"

Alessandro was too much absorbed in thoughts of his people, to observe
the hesitating emphasis with which Ramona asked this question.

"Yes, Senorita, I love them all. They are like my brothers and sisters,
all of my father's people," he said; "and I am unhappy about them all
the time."

During the whole of this conversation Ramona had had an undercurrent of
thought going on, which was making her uneasy. The more Alessandro said
about his father and his people, the more she realized that he was held
to Temecula by bonds that would be hard to break, the more she feared
his father would not let him remain away from home for any length of
time. At the thought of his going away, her very heart sickened. Taking
a sudden step towards him, she said abruptly, "Alessandro, I am afraid
your father will not give his consent to your staying here."

"So am I, Senorita," he replied sadly.

"And you would not stay if he did not approve of it, of course," she
said.

"How could I, Senorita?"

"No," she said, "it would not be right;" but as she said these words,
the tears filled her e