d post-office several times, to exchange baskets or
lace for flour, and she had heard talk there which disquieted her. She
did not believe that Saboba was safe. One day she had heard a man say,
"If there is a drought we shall have the devil to pay with our stock
before winter is over." "Yes," said another; "and look at those damned
Indians over there in Saboba, with water running all the time in their
village! It's a shame they should have that spring!"

Not for worlds would Ramona have told this to Alessandro. She kept it
locked in her own breast, but it rankled there like a ceaseless warning
and prophecy. When she reached home that day she went down to the spring
in the centre of the village, and stood a long time looking at the
bubbling water. It was indeed a priceless treasure; a long irrigating
ditch led from it down into the bottom, where lay the cultivated
fields,--many acres in wheat, barley, and vegetables. Alessandro himself
had fields there from which they would harvest all they needed for the
horses and their cow all winter, in case pasturage failed. If the whites
took away this water, Saboba would be ruined. However, as the spring
began in the very heart of the village, they could not take it without
destroying the village. "And the Ravallos would surely never let that be
done," thought Ramona. "While they live, it will not happen."

It was a sad day for Ramona and Alessandro when the kindly Hyers pulled
up their tent-stakes and left the valley. Their intended three months
had stretched into six, they had so enjoyed the climate, and the waters
had seemed to do such good to Jos. But, "We ain't rich folks, yer know,
not by a long ways, we ain't," said Aunt Ri; "an' we've got pretty nigh
down to where Jeff an' me's got to begin airnin' suthin'. Ef we kin git
settled 'n some o' these towns where there's carpenterin' to be done.
Jeff, he's a master hand to thet kind o' work, though yer mightn't
think it; 'n I kin airn right smart at weavin'; jest give me a good
carpet-loom, 'n I won't be beholden to nobody for vittles. I jest du
love weavin'. I donno how I've contented myself this hull year, or nigh
about a year, without a loom. Jeff, he sez to me once, sez he, 'Ri, do
yer think yer'd be contented in heaven without yer loom?' an' I was free
to say I didn't know's I should."

"Is it hard?" cried Ramona. "Could I learn to do it?" It was wonderful
what progress in understanding and speaking English Ramona had made