little English. I am so sorry I cannot understand. Will it
tire you to interpret to me what your mother said?"

Jos was as full of humor as his mother. "She wants me to tell her what
you wuz sayin'," he said, "I allow, I'll only tell her the part on't
she'll like best.--My mother says you can stay here with us till the
storm is over," he said to Ramona.

Swifter than lightning, Ramona had seized the woman's hand and carried
it to her heart, with an expressive gesture of gratitude and emotion.
"Thanks! thanks! Senora!" she cried.

"What is it she calls me, Jos?" asked his mother.

"Senora," he replied. "It only means the same as lady."

"Shaw, Jos! You tell her I ain't any lady. Tell her everybody round
where we live calls me 'Aunt Ri,' or 'Mis Hyer;' she kin call me
whichever she's a mind to. She's reel sweet-spoken."

With some difficulty Jos explained his mother's disclaimer of the title
of Senora, and the choice of names she offered to Ramona.

Ramona, with smiles which won both mother and son, repeated after him
both names, getting neither exactly right at first trial, and finally
said, "I like 'Aunt Ri' best; she is so kind, like aunt, to every one."

"Naow, ain't thet queer, Jos," said Aunt Ri, "aout here 'n thes
wilderness to ketch sumbody sayin' thet,--jest what they all say ter
hum? I donno's I'm enny kinder'n ennybody else. I don't want ter see
ennybody put upon, nor noways sufferin', ef so be's I kin help; but thet
ain't ennythin' stronary, ez I know. I donno how ennybody could feel
enny different."

"There's lots doos, mammy," replied Jos, affectionately. "Yer'd find out
fast enuf, ef yer went raound more. There's mighty few's good's you air
ter everybody."

Ramona was crouching in the corner by the fire, her baby held close to
her breast. The place which at first had seemed a haven of warmth, she
now saw was indeed but a poor shelter against the fearful storm which
raged outside. It was only a hut of rough boards, carelessly knocked
together for a shepherd's temporary home. It had been long unused, and
many of the boards were loose and broken. Through these crevices, at
every blast of the wind, the fine snow swirled. On the hearth were
burning a few sticks of wood, dead cottonwood branches, which Jef Hyer
had hastily collected before the storm reached its height. A few more
sticks lay by the hearth. Aunt Ri glanced at them anxiously. A poor
provision for a night in the snow. "Be ye warm, Jos?" s