d, leaning
out, eagerly scrutinizing each inch of the barren ground. "Stop! Here
'tis!" she cried. "I knowed I smelt the bitter on 't somewhars along
hyar;" and in a few minutes more she had a mass of the soft, shining,
gray, feathery leaves in her hands, and was urging the horses fiercely
on their way back. "This'll cure her, ef ennything will," she said, as
she entered the room again; but her heart sank as she saw Ramona's eyes
roving restlessly over Felipe's face, no sign of recognition in them.
"She's bad," she said, her lips trembling; "but, 'never say die!' ez
allers our motto; 'tain't never tew late fur ennything but oncet, 'n'
yer can't tell when thet time's come till it's past 'n' gone."

Steaming bowls of the bitterly odorous infusion she held at Ramona's
nostrils; with infinite patience she forced drop after drop of it
between the unconscious lips; she bathed the hands and head, her own
hands blistered by the heat. It was a fight with death; but love and
life won. Before night Ramona was asleep.

Felipe and Aunt Ri sat by her, strange but not uncongenial watchers,
each taking heart from the other's devotion. All night long Ramona
slept. As Felipe watched her, he remembered his own fever, and how she
had knelt by his bed and prayed there. He glanced around the room. In a
niche in the mud wall was a cheap print of the Madonna, one candle just
smouldering out before it. The village people had drawn heavily on their
poverty-stricken stores, keeping candles burning for Alessandro and
Ramona during the past ten days. The rosary had slipped from Ramona's
hold; taking it cautiously in his hand, Felipe went to the Madonna's
picture, and falling on his knees, began to pray as simply as if he were
alone. The Indians, standing on the doorway, also fell on their knees,
and a low-whispered murmur was heard.

For a moment Aunt Ri looked at the kneeling figures with contempt. "Oh,
Lawd!" she thought, "the pore heathen, prayin' ter a picter!" Then a
sudden revulsion seized her. "I allow I ain't gwine ter be the unly one
out er the hull number thet don't seem to hev nothin' ter pray ter; I
allow I'll jine in prayer, tew, but I shan't say mine ter no picter!"
And Aunt Ri fell on her knees; and when a young Indian woman by her side
slipped a rosary into her hand, Aunt Ri did not repulse it, but hid it
in the folds of her gown till the prayers were done. It was a moment and
a lesson Aunt Ri never forgot.

XXVI

THE Ca