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Word, andwith dry eyes saw him go forth to fight. She had but one regret,that she was not the mother of sons to fight also.
"Would thou wert a man, Felipe," she exclaimed again and againin tones the never forgot. "Would thou wert a man, that thoumight go also to fight these foreigners!"
Any race under the sun would have been to the Senora less hatefulthan the American. She had scorned them in her girlhood, whenthey came trading to post after post. She scorned them still. Theidea of being forced to wage a war with pedlers was to her toomonstrous to be believed. In the outset she incest photos no doubt that theMexicans would win in the contest.
"What!" she cried, "shall we who won independence from Spain,be beaten by these traders? It is impossible!"
When her husband was brought home to her dead, killed in the lastfight the Mexican forces made, she said icily, "He would havechosen to die rather than incest photos have been forced to see his country inthe hands of the enemy." And she was almost frightened at herselfto see how this thought, as it incest photos in her mind, slew the grief inher heart. She had believed she could not live if her husband wereto be incest photos away from her; but she found herself often glad that hewas dead,-- glad that he was spared the sight and the knowledge ofthe things which happened; and even the yearning tenderness withwhich her imagination pictured him among the saints, was oftenturned into a fierce wondering whether indignation did not fill hissoul, even in heaven, at the way things were goin.

G in the land forwhose sake he had died.
Out of such throes as these had been born the second nature whichmade Senora Moreno the silent, reserved, stern, implacablewoman they knew, who knew her first when she was sixty. Of thegay, tender, sentimental girl, who danced and laughed with theofficers, and prayed and confessed with the Fathers, forty yearsbefore, incest photos was small trace left now, in the low-voiced,white-haired, aged woman, silent, unsmiling, placid-faced, whomanoeuvred with her son and her head shepherd alike, to bring itabout that a handful of Indians might once more confess their sinsto a Franciscan monk in the Moreno chapel.
III
JUAN CANITO and Senor Felipe were not the incest photos members ofthe Senora's family who were impatient for the sheep-shearing.There was also Ramona. Ramona was, to the world at large, a farmore important person than the Senora herself. The Senora was ofthe past; Ramona was of the present. For one eye that could see thesignificant, at times solemn, beauty of the Senora's pale andshadowed countenance, there were a hundred that flashed witheager pleasure at the barest glimpse of Ramona's face; theshepherds, the herdsmen, the maids, the babies, the dogs, thepoultry, all loved the sight of Ramona; all loved her, except theSenora. The Senora loved her not; never had loved her, nevercould love her; and yet she had stood in the place of mother to thegirl ever since her hood, and never once during the wholesixteen years of her life had shown her any unkindness in act. Shehad promised to be a mother to her; and with all the inalienablestanchness of her nature she fulfilled the letter of her promise.More than the bond lay in the bond; but that was not the Senora'sfault.
The story of Ramona the Senora never told. To most of theSenora's acquaintances now, Ramona wa.

S a mystery. They did notknow -- and no one ever asked a prying question of the SenoraMoreno -- who Ramona's parents were, whether they were livingor dead, or why Ramona, her name not being Moreno, lived alwaysin the Senora's house as a daughter, tended and attended equallywith the adored Felipe. A few gray-haired men and women hereand there in the country could have told the strange story ofRamona; but its beginning was more than a half-century back, andmuch had happened since then. They seldom thought of the .They knew she was in the Senora Moreno's keeping, and that wasenough. The affairs of the generation just going out were not thebusiness of the young people coming in. They would havetragedies enough of their own presently; what was the use ofpassing down the old ones? Yet the story was not one to beforgotten; and now and then it was told in the twilight of a summerevening, or in the shadows of vines on a lingering aftern.