tears came to her eyes, and she gave a cry when she tried to rise.

"Do you live near here?" I asked, for she was a stranger to me, though I
knew all the people for many miles around.

"I should not call it far, under usual circumstances," she answered,
"but now it is a long way. I live with my aunt, Ambrosia Moreno. Oh, I
can never get there."

"You must bathe the ankle here; there is a pool, and the rock beside it
makes a good seat," and gently lifting her, I placed her beside the
stream, which ran clear and cold from under the broad leaves. Without
any show of false modesty, she did as I directed, and having saturated
my handkerchief, I bound it about the sprain, and wrapping her long
cloak of wool around her, put her shoe and stocking in my pocket, and
then lifting her to my shoulder, started down the road to Madre Moreno's
cottage.

In appearance, the young woman was of small figure, delicately formed
and graceful; her face full of life, with finely marked eyebrows of the
same brown shade as her hair; her eyes were blue--a rare colour among us
Californians--unusually full and brilliant, and to-day suffused with
tears. I noticed that the pupils were remarkably large, sometimes
covering the greater part, if not all, of the iris.

Small and light as she was, I had to rest often, for the distance was
nearly a mile, and the surface of the road was much broken. When
reaching the top of the last rise of the road before arriving at Madre
Moreno's I rested for the last time.