Out of such throes as these had been born the second nature which
made Senora Moreno the silent, reserved, stern, implacable
woman they knew, who knew her first when she was sixty. Of the
gay, tender, sentimental girl, who danced and laughed with the
officers, and prayed and confessed with the Fathers, forty years
before, there was small trace left now, in the low-voiced,
white-haired, aged woman, silent, unsmiling, placid-faced, who
manoeuvred with her son and her head shepherd alike, to bring it
about that a handful of Indians might once more confess their sins
to a Franciscan monk in the Moreno chapel.

III

JUAN CANITO and Senor Felipe were not the only members of
the Senora's family who were impatient for the sheep-shearing.
There was also Ramona. Ramona was, to the world at large, a far
more important person than the Senora herself. The Senora was of
the past; Ramona was of the present. For one eye that could see the
significant, at times solemn, beauty of the Senora's pale and
shadowed countenance, there were a hundred that flashed with
eager pleasure at the barest glimpse of Ramona's face; the
shepherds, the herdsmen, the maids, the babies, the dogs, the
poultry, all loved the sight of Ramona; all loved her, except the
Senora. The Senora loved her not; never had loved her, never
could love her; and yet she had stood in the place of mother to the
girl ever since her childhood, and never once during the whole
sixteen years of her life had shown her any unkindness in act. She
had promised to be a mother to her; and with all the inalienable
stanchness of her nature she fulfilled the letter of her promise.
More than the bond lay in the bond; but that was not the Senora's