daughter?"

The Senora was dumb for a second; then recovering herself, she
said: "Your father was the Senora Ortegna's friend more than he
was mine. I was only a child, then."

"Of course you did not need any daughter when you had Felipe,"
continued Ramona, pursuing her original line of inquiry and
reflection without noticing the Senora's reply. "A son is more than
a daughter; but most people have both," eying the Senora keenly,
to see what response this would bring.

But the Senora was weary and uncomfortable with the talk. At the
very mention of Felipe, a swift flash of consciousness of her
inability to love Ramona had swept through her mind. "Ramona,"
she said firmly, "while you are a little girl, you cannot understand
any of these things. When you are a woman, I will tell you all that
I know myself about your father and your mother. It is very little.
Your father died when you were only two years old. All that you
have to do is to be a good child, and say your prayers, and when
Father Salvierderra comes he will be pleased with you. And he will
not be pleased if you ask troublesome questions. Don't ever speak
to me again about this. When the proper time comes I will tell you
myself."

This was when Ramona was ten. She was now nineteen. She had
never again asked the Senora a question bearing on the forbidden
subject. She had been a good child and said her prayers, and Father
Salvierderra had been always pleased with her, growing more and
more deeply attached to her year by year. But the proper time had