s decisive upon her avaricious soul, and she clutched at
it wildly.

"Put it into my han'!" she cried.

"Put Pepeeta into mine," he said.

"Pepeeta! Pepeeta!" she called.

"Pepeeta! Pepeeta!" shrilled the old crone.

Out of the door of the tent she came, her eyes fixed upon the ground,
and her fingers picking nervously at the tinsel strings which fastened
her bodice.

"Gif me ze money and take her," said Chicarona.

He counted out the gold, and then approached the child. For the first
time in his life he experienced an emotion of reverence. There was
something about her beauty, her helplessness and his responsibility that
made a new appeal to his heart.

Yielding to the gentle pressure of his hand, she permitted herself to be
led away. Not a goodbye was said. Chicarona's feeling toward her had
been fast developing from jealousy into hatred as the child's beauty
began to increase and attract attention. The others loved her, but dared
not show it. Not a sign of regret was exhibited, except by the old
crone, who approached her, gave her a stealthy caress, and secretly
placed a crumpled parchment in her hand.

The Doctor lifted the child upon the horse's back and climbed into the
saddle. As they turned into the highway, he heard Chicarona say, "Bring
me my pajunda, Baltasar, and I will sing a grachalpa."

The beautiful child trembled, for the words were those of hatred and
triumph. She trembled, but she also wept. She was parting from those
whose lives were base and cruel; but they were the only human beings
that she knew. She was leaving a wagon and a tent, but it was the only
home that she could remember. In a vague and childish way, she felt
herself to be the sport of mysterious powers, a little shuttlecock
between the battledores of Fortune. Whatever her destiny was to be,
there was no use in struggling, and so she sobbed softly and yielded to
the inevitable. Her little hands were folded across her heart in an
instinctive attitude of submission. Folded hands are not always resigned
hands; but Pepeeta's were. She submitted thus quietly not because she
was weak, but because she was strong, not because she was contemptible,
but because she was noble. In proportion to the majesty of things, is
the completeness of their obedience to the powers that are above them.
Gravitation is obeyed less quietly by a grain of dust than by the rivers
and planets. Those half-suppressed sobs and hardly restrained sighs
would hav