s right, and this
young twig of the Church is as dry and sapless as himself. Let the
_mestiza_ burn if she likes."

"Quick, Pancho," said the young girl, eagerly leading him along the
corridor. "This way. I must talk with thee before thou seest Don Juan;
that is why I ran to intercept thee, and not as that fool Antonio would
signify, to shame thee. Wast thou ashamed, my Pancho?"

The boy threw his arm familiarly round the supple, stayless little
waist, accented only by the belt of the light flounced _saya_, and
said, "But why this haste and feverishness, 'Nita? And now I look at
thee, thou hast been crying."

They had emerged from a door in the corridor into the bright sunlight
of a walled garden. The girl dropped her eyes, cast a quick glance
around her, and said:

"Not here; to the _arroyo_;" and half leading, half dragging him, made
her way through a copse of _manzanita_ and alder until they heard the
faint tinkling of water. "Dost thou remember," said the girl, "it was
here," pointing to an embayed pool in the dark current, "that I
baptized thee, when Father Pedro first brought thee here, when we both
played at being monks? They were dear old days, for Father Pedro would
trust no one with thee but me, and always kept us near him."

"Aye, and he said I would be profaned by the touch of any other, and so
himself always washed and dressed me, and made my bed near his."

"And took thee away again, and I saw thee not till thou camest with
Antonio, over a year ago, to the cattle branding. And now, my Pancho, I
may never see thee again." She buried her face in her hands and sobbed
aloud.

The little acolyte tried to comfort her, but with such abstraction of
manner and inadequacy of warmth that she hastily removed his caressing
hand.

"But why? What has happened?" he asked eagerly.

The girl's manner had changed. Her eyes flashed, and she put her brown
fist on her waist and began to rock from side to side.

"But I'll not go," she said, viciously.

"Go where?" asked the boy.

"Oh, where?" she echoed, impatiently. "Hear me, Francisco. Thou knowest
I am, like thee, an orphan; but I have not, like thee, a parent in the
Holy Church. For, alas," she added, bitterly, "I am not a boy, and have
not a lovely voice borrowed from the angels. I was, like thee, a
foundling, kept, by the charity of the reverend fathers, until Don
Juan, a childless widower, adopted me. I was happy, not knowing and
caring who were the parent