poverty, was clean and orderly, while the manner of the woman,
though quietly respectful and warmly grateful, showed a dignified
self-respect. In one corner of the room, on a rude bed, lay a young
man.

The girl returned the woman's greeting kindly in Spanish and, going
to the bedside, spoke, still in the soft, musical tongue of the
South, to the man. "How are you to-day, Pablo? Is the leg getting
better all right?"

"Si, Senorita, thank you," he replied, his dark face beaming with
gladness and gratitude and his eyes looking up at her with an
expression of dumb devotion. "Yes, I think it gets better right
along. But it is slow and it is hard to lie here doing nothing for
the mother and the children. God knows what would become of us if it
were not for your goodness. La Senorita is an angel of mercy. We can
never repay."

The people were of the better class of industrious poor Mexicans.
The father was dead, and Pablo, the eldest son, who was the little
family's sole support, had been hurt in the mine some two weeks
before. Barbara visited them every few days, caring for their wants
as indeed she helped many of Rubio City's worthy poor. For this work
Jefferson Worth gave her without question all the money that she
asked and often expressed his interest in his own cold way, even
telling her of certain cases that came to his notice from time to
time. So the banker's daughter was hailed as an angel of mercy and
greatly loved by the same class that feared and cursed her father.

For a little while the girl talked to Pablo and his mother