to the rear, he leaped the fence, and went to the other house and opened
the kitchen door. Here he was not afraid. Mrs. Hartsel had never any but
Indian servants in her employ. The kitchen was lighted only by one
dim candle. On the stove were sputtering and hissing all the pots and
frying-pans it would hold. Much cooking was evidently going on for the
men who were noisily rollicking in the other house.

Seating himself by the fire, Alessandro waited. In a few moments Mrs.
Hartsel came hurrying back to her work. It was no uncommon experience to
find an Indian quietly sitting by her fire. In the dim light she did not
recognize Alessandro, but mistook him, as he sat bowed over, his head in
his hands, for old Ramon, who was a sort of recognized hanger-on of the
place, earning his living there by odd jobs of fetching and carrying,
and anything else he could do.

"Run, Ramon," she said, "and bring me more wood; this cotton wood is so
dry, it burns out like rotten punk; I'm off my feet to-night, with all
these men to cook for;" then turning to the table, she began cutting
her bread, and did not see how tall and unlike Ramon was the man who
silently rose and went out to do her bidding. When, a few moments later,
Alessandro re-entered, bringing a huge armful of wood, which it would
have cost poor old Ramon three journeys at least to bring, and throwing
it down, on the hearth, said, "Will that be enough, Mrs. Hartsel?"
she gave a scream of surprise, and dropped her knife. "Why, who--" she
began; then, seeing his face, her own lighting up with pleasure, she
continued, "Alessandro! Is it you? Why, I took you in the dark for old
Ramon! I thought you were in Pachanga."

"In Pachanga!" Then as yet no one had come from the Senora Moreno's to
Hartsel's in search of him and the Senorita Ramona! Alessandro's heart
felt almost light in his bosom, From the one immediate danger he had
dreaded, they were safe; but no trace of emotion showed on his face, and
he did not raise his eyes as he replied; "I have been in Pachanga. My
father is dead. I have buried him there."

"Oh, Alessandro! Did he die?" cried the kindly woman, coming closer to
Alessandro, and laying her hand on his shoulder. "I heard he was sick."
She paused; she did not know what to say. She had suffered so at the
time of the ejectment of the Indians, that it had made her ill. For two
days she had kept her doors shut and her windows close curtained, that
she need not see the t