Part 3 (1/2)

The very thought of being paid for what she had so freely given hurt Jane. Without realizing its coldness and emptiness, her life had been truly void of human warmth before the little, lonely girl stole in to fill it with her piteous, proud presence. A happier child, with more childish ways, might not so fully have compa.s.sed Jane's awakening; for this had been in proportion to the needs of the one who so forlornly made plea for entrance. Having once thrown wide the door of her heart, Jane had begun to understand the blessedness that lies in generosity.

Lola might never care for her, indeed; but to Lola she owed the impulse of loving self-bestowal, which is as s.h.i.+ning sunlight in the bosom.

Mr. Keene wrote that the claim he had been working had proved valueless. He expected better luck next time; but just now he could not do as he had intended for Lola; and in view of his unsettled circ.u.mstances he thought it might be well if Miss Combs could place the girl in some family where her services would be acceptable.

”Life,” he wrote, was at best ”a rough proposition,” and it would doubtless be good for Lola, who had sundry faults of temper, to learn this fact early. For the present she would have to give up all idea of going to school. Mr. Keene would be sorry if the prospect displeased his daughter, but people couldn't have everything their own way in this world.

Such words as these Jane instinctively knew would fall crus.h.i.+ngly upon Lola, and leave her in a sorry plight of abject, hardening thought.

Therefore, steeling herself to bear the girl's misinterpretation, she said, ”Lola, your father wouldn't want you to see this letter. It's on business.”

”Does he say I'm not to see it?” asked Lola.

Jane's brows twisted painfully. ”No,” she said, ”but--”

Lola turned away. Every line of her figure was eloquent of grievance.

She walked off without a glance to apprise her of the anguish in Jane's face. Slowly Jane went toward the house; whereupon Alejandro Vigil, who had continued an interested spectator, followed Lola to the ditch.

”If thou hadst wept, she would have given thee the letter,” he suggested. ”My mother, she always gives up to us when we weep loudly. A still baby gets no milk,” said Alejandro, wisely, as he hugged his bare knees.

”I am no baby!” retorted Lola. Nevertheless her voice was husky, and Alejandro watched her anxiously.

”It's no good to cry now,” he advised her. ”She's gone into the house.”

”_Tonto!_ Do you think I want her to see me?” wept Lola. ”She is hard and cruel. O my father!”

”Come over and tell my mother about it!” urged the boy, troubled. ”You are Mexican like us, no? Your mother was Mexican? Come! My mother will say what is best to do.”

Lola listened. She let herself be dragged up. An adviser might speak some word of wisdom. ”Come, then,” she agreed.

But Senora Vigil, on hearing the story, only groaned and sighed.

”These Americans have the heart of ice!” she said. ”Doubtless there was money in the letter and she did not want you to know. Serafita, leave thy sister alone, or I will beat thee! It will be best, Lolita, to say little. A close mouth catches no flies.”

”I may not stay here with you?” asked Lola.

”Alas, no, little pigeon!” mourned the senora. ”In the cage where thy father has put thee thou must stay! But come and tell me everything.

This shall be thy house when thou art in trouble!” and thus defining the limits of her hospitality, she made a gesture toward the mud walls on which strings of goat meat were drying in a sanguinary fringe.

Autumn fell bright on the foot-hills. The plains blazed with yellow flowers which seemed to run in streams of molten gold from every canon, and linger in great pools on the flats and line all the ditches. Ricks of green and silver rose all along the Apishapa. Alfalfa was purple to the last crop, and an air of affluence pervaded everything.

The town was thronged with ranchers, coming in to trade; the mine had started up for the winter. Men who had prospected for precious metals all summer in the mountains now bundled their pots and pans and blankets back to shelter for the winter; the long-eared burros, lost in great rolls of bedding, stood about the tipple awaiting the result of their masters' interviews with the mine boss, concerning work and the occupancy of any ”shack” that might still be empty.

Now, too, the bell of the red-brick school clamored loudly of mornings; and dark, taciturn Mexican children, and paler, noisier children from the mining end of town, bubbled out of every door. Seven Vigils obeyed the daily summons, clad, boy and girl, in cotton stuff of precisely the hue of their skin. Bobbing through the gate, one after another, they were like a family of little dun-colored prairie-dogs, of a hue with their adobe dwelling, shy and brown and bright-eyed.

Among them Lola had an effect of tropical brilliancy, by reason of the red frock with which Jane had provided her. There were red ribbons also in Lola's braided hair; and the girl, although still aware of bitter wrongs, was sensible of being pleased with her raiment. More than once on her way to school that first day she looked at the breadths of her scarlet cashmere with a gratified eye; and catching her at this, Ana Vigil had sighed disapprovingly, saying, ”It is too good for every day--that dress.”

”It isn't too good for me!” flashed back Lola. ”My father can do what he likes!”

”True,” said Ana, ”since he has a gold-mine. But even if I were rich, I should fear that the saints might punish me for wearing to school my best clothes. I would wish to win their good-will by wearing no finery,” said Ana, piously. She was a plump girl, with eyes like splinters of coal in her suave brown face; despite the extreme softness of her voice, these glittering splinters rested with no gentle ray on Lola.

Indeed, Jane's pride in having her charge well-dressed operated largely against the girl's popularity with others of her mates than Ana.