an Indian she must be until she dies. Never again shall she leave Acoma."

"Señor! How can you be so blind to your daughter's interests? You will
break her heart! Surely you cannot be so cruel!"

But Mrs. Coolidge's protests were broken off by Barbara's return. The
girl stood before her father with her eyes on the floor and her face cold
and impassive. She was dressed again in the garments she had worn when
she first entered the house, three months before, and she seemed a far
different creature from the happy and radiant girl to whom her lover had
but just said good-bye. Ambrosio looked her over approvingly.

"Now you are my daughter. Come."

With the pueblo children centuries of training have caused unhesitating
obedience to parents to become an instinct. So Barbara did not question,
but at once followed her father toward the door. Mrs. Coolidge was
weeping. Barbara threw both arms around her neck and kissed her again
and again. The girl's face was expressionless and there were no tears in
her voice, but her wide, black eyes, paling now to brown, told the agony
that was in her heart.

"Tell him," she whispered in English, "that I must go back. My father
bids me, and I must go. My father will never again let me leave Acoma.
Tell him I shall never see him again, but I shall love him always."

"My poor child!" sobbed Mrs. Coolidge. "We must find some way to bring
you back!"

"It is useless to try. I know my father, and I know it will be