partionately exalted those qualities which she excessively admired—namely, his physical courage and his recognized skill along his own line.
As she sat in the doorway the family seemed to rise before her like startled ghosts, and the small, insistent voice with its pertinent questions contributed to her uneasy feeling of wrong-doing.
"O, señorita!"
Nan turned to see a small figure in a tattered shawl standing irresolutely at the corner of the house.
"Rosario?" Any interruption was welcome at the moment.
Rosario Richards crept to her side like a beaten little dog. Rosario Richards, whose Mexican mother had married one of the hated gringos, and for whom her mother's people, with whom she lived, had no love because of her gringo blood.
Rosario, the sensitive little half-breed, who shyly brought Nan offerings of horned toads, queer lizards, and soap-root so that her hair might shine like the hair of the Señorita Perfecta Torres. She leaned her forehead
