"Yes, Father, all well," she answered. "Felipe has been ill with a
fever; but he is out now, these ten days, and fretting for -- for your
coming."

Ramona had like to have said the literal truth,-- "fretting for the
sheep-shearing," but recollected herself in time.

"And the Senora?" said the Father.

"She is well," answered Ramona, gently, but with a slight change
of tone,-- so slight as to be almost imperceptible; but an acute
observer would have always detected it in the girl's tone whenever
she spoke of the Senora Moreno. "And you,-- are you well
yourself, Father?" she asked affectionately, noting with her quick,
loving eye how feebly the old man walked, and that he carried
what she had never before seen in his hand,-- a stout staff to steady
his steps. "You must be very tired with the long journey on foot."

"Ay, Ramona, I am tired," he replied. "Old age is conquering me. It
will not be many times more that I shall see this place."

"Oh, do not say that, Father," cried Ramona; "you can ride, when it
tires you too much to walk. The Senora said, only the other day,
that she wished you would let her give you a horse; that it was not
right for you to take these long journeys on foot. You know we
have hundreds of horses. It is nothing, one horse," she added,
seeing the Father slowly shake his head.

"No;" he said, "it is not that. I could not refuse anything at the
hands of the Senora. But it was the rule of our order to go on foot.