is. The Father had
not seen her or heard of her. I fear she is dead."

"Better so," was the Senora's sole reply; and she fell again into still
deeper, more perplexed thought about the hidden treasure. Each day she
resolved, "To-morrow I will tell Felipe;" and when to-morrow came,
she put it off again. Finally she decided not to do it till she found
herself dying. Father Salvierderra might yet come once more, and
then all would be well. With trembling hands she wrote him a letter,
imploring him to be brought to her, and sent it by messenger, who was
empowered to hire a litter and four men to bring the Father gently and
carefully all the way. But when the messenger reached Santa Barbara,
Father Salvierderra was too feeble to be moved; too feeble even
to write. He could write only by amanuensis, and wrote, therefore,
guardedly, sending her his blessing, and saying that he hoped her
foster-child might yet be restored to the keeping of her friends. The
Father had been in sore straits of mind, as month after month had passed
without tidings of his "blessed child."

Soon after this came the news that the Father was dead. This dealt the
Senora a terrible blow. She never left her bed after it. And so the year
had worn on; and Felipe, mourning over his sinking and failing mother,
and haunted by terrible fears about the lost Ramona, had been tortured
indeed.

But the end drew near, now. The Senora was plainly dying. The Ventura
doctor had left off coming, saying that he could do no more; nothing
remained but to give her what ease was possible; in a day or two more
all would be over. Felipe hardly left her bedside. Rarely was mother so
loved and nursed by son. No daughter could have shown more tenderness
and devotion. In the close relation and affection of these last days,
the sense of alienation and antagonism faded from both their hearts.

"My adorable Felipe!" she would murmur. "What a son hast thou been!"
And, "My beloved mother! How shall I give you up?" Felipe would reply,
bowing his head on her hands,--so wasted now, so white, so weak; those
hands which had been cruel and strong little more than one short year
ago. Ah, no one could refuse to forgive the Senora now! The gentle
Ramona, had she seen her, had wept tears of pity. Her eyes wore at times
a look almost of terror. It was the secret. How should she speak it?
What would Felipe say? At last the moment came. She had been with
difficulty roused from a long fainting; o