," said Steve, "what can be the matter?"

"Matter? My dear boy! Read that! Rita is an heiress."

"What?"

He might well have been half afraid his friend had lost his wits, but
he took the "talking leaves" held out to him, and read the few lines to
which the finger of Murray was pointing:

"The great English estate of Cranston Hall, with a baronetcy, is
waiting for an heir. The late baronet left no children, and his only
brother, to whom the title and all descend, was last heard of in
America. He is believed to have been interested in mining in the Far
West, and the lawyers are hunting for him."

"Well," said Murray, when Steve ceased reading, "what do you think of
that?"

"I don't know exactly what to think. Your name is Murray."

"Robert Cranston Murray, as my father's was before me. It was because
he left me only my name that I left England to seek my fortune. Oh,
Steve! I must find my way back now. Rita will be the lady of Cranston
Hall!"

"Instead of the squaw of some Apache horse-stealer!"

Steve felt a little like dancing, and a good deal like tossing up his
hat and venting his feelings by a good hurrah, but the next thought was
a sober one.

"How are we ever to get them to give up Rita?"

Murray was thinking the same thought just then, and it seemed to him as
if he must go out to the door of the lodge for a little breath of fresh
air.

The chief and his councillors were nowhere to be seen, but there was
Mother Dolores by the camp-fire.

Murray tried hard to assume a calm and steady face and voice as he
strode forward and stood beside her. He spoke to her in Spanish.

"Well, Dolores, which do you like best, cooking for Mexican miners or
for the great chief?"

She dropped her stew-pan and stood looking at him for a moment, drawing
her breath hard, and then she exclaimed,

"I was right. It is Senor Murray. Ah, senor, it is so long ago! The
poor senora--"

"Don't speak of her. I know. We found her. My Rita?"

"Yes, she is your Rita. But they will kill you if you tell them. I
will keep your secret, senor. I have kept it now."

She had dimly recognized him, then, and she, too, had been in doubt
what to do or say. In answer to a few more questions she told him very
truly that she had been better off among the Apaches than before she
was captured. Less hard work, better treatment, better food, better
position, just about as much real civilization.

Poor Dolores had never k