"Ah, the water overflows," said Francisco, as they once more came in sight of the spring. He hurried down the bank, turned the horse round, tightened the thongs holding the barrel so that it would stand firmly on the wagon, and the boys began to retrace their steps.

As soon as they were on level ground again, Francisco, with the reins in his hand, the other two walking beside him, pointed to a frame dwelling a little removed from the others at the top of a little hill.

"You see that house?" he said. "It is where he lives—that boy. He came last month, with his mother and sister. They tell that the lady is a missionary from India. Have you heard of women doing like that?"

He looked earnestly at the two children, awaiting their reply.

"In the Protestant churches they do send women to far countries as missionaries," rejoined Walter.

"That is funny," replied Francisco, reflectingly. "It may be well, if they are savages in India; but here we do not want them, I think."

"Are they here to convert the Indians?" asked Nellie.

"For the good waters, they say—but maybe, too, for other things. Oh, I tell you, we have plenty of such people in the summer. But they can not hurt very much.

"One day I was going for water, just like now," he continued. "The horse I could not find. After a while I saw this boy riding him bareback, and I said to him: 'You ride pretty well, but it is my horse, and I want him!' But he made one of his faces, and said he would not get off, and called me a dirty Indian. Then I pulled him off, and he struck me. After that I knocked him down, and my uncle came out from the house and said it was wrong to do so—that it was never known that the Indians quarreled with the whites at the Springs. So then I made my excuse to the boy and promised I would not quarrel again; but my uncle said to him that he must not take my horse again. And then he mocked my uncle; and I was going to hit him, but my uncle held me, and he said: 'Go away, boy. You are not a good boy.'"

"And then what did he do?" asked Walter.

"He put out his tongue, and just as he did so a lady came from around the corner by the church. She stopped and said: 'My son, that is not polite. You must not let the savages teach you how to behave.'"

"I'm sure you got angry again then, didn't you?" said Walter.

"Well, I did, and my uncle a little, too. He spoke for me. He said we were not savages, but Christian people. As he was speaking, that boy had picked up a stone, and, sneaking behind my uncle, he hit him in the back of the head. Once more I was going to fight with him, but my uncle took my arm, and he said: 'Promise me you will not strike that boy, either now or ever!' I promised, and we went away and left them. That is all—except that sometimes, when he sees me, he tries very hard to make me angry."

"He'd better not talk very much to me," said Walter. "I'm not afraid of him. If I gave him one good lamming, I guess he'd stop."

"You must not think of quarreling with him, Walter," said Nellie.

"I sha'n't, if he lets me alone," her brother replied. "But if he turns out to be a nagger, I'll settle him, once and for all."

"Would you like to see the Lavenderia?" asked Francisco, as a company of Indian women passed them with huge bundles thrown across their shoulders.

"What is that?" Nellie inquired.

"What you call washing-house—laundry," replied the boy. "They are going now to wash. All day long, from early, early morning, they come. For so it must be. They have to wash the clothes, but all cannot do it at once; so one week a few come in the early morning, and others later; and the next week the late ones come first. But always, except on Sunday, until night they are washing."

"Shall we leave the water here and go now?" asked Nellie.

"I think not," replied Francisco. "It is better first to leave the water at your camp; then you can sit on the wagon again, and your brother and I will walk beside."

"Let's hurry up, then," said Nellie. "I just love to watch those women as they trot along. But why don't the men help them carry those heavy bundles."

Francisco regarded her for a moment with astonishment.

"Carry clothes to the wash?" he said. "It is not men's work—that."

Nellie did not reply. She was not going to quarrel with Francisco. But in her kind little heart she thought the noble Indian wanting in chivalry to the weaker sex.

Everyone at the camp was glad to see them; they had been gone exactly an hour and a half.

"You can't make an Indian hurry," Charlie had said when Mrs. Page began to grow uneasy. "Nothing can happen to the young folk; the boy is all right, and they're nothing but children."

Francisco led the horse to the back of the large tent, and with Charlie's assistance placed the barrel under the pepper tree; a gourd-dipper was produced from Charlie's countless stores, and everyone had a drink of the delightful, cool water.

"If you will take a piece of cheese-cloth," said Francisco, "and, running a string through, tie it around the top of the barrel, wetting it always, it will keep cool the water, and the flies away."

"A very good idea, Francisco," said Aunt Mary, preparing to go in search of the cheese-cloth, needle, and tape, at once.

"And now, if we may, I will take them to see the Lavenderia," said the Indian boy. "They wish to look at the washing going on."

"I don't care so much for it, but Nellie does," said Walter.

"You do so—every bit as much as I do—Walter," rejoined Nellie. "Only you think it's like a girl to go and see them washing."

"No; it isn't that," said Walter, when everybody had finished laughing. "But maybe they won't like our looking at them."

"They are probably used to it by this time," said Mr. Page. "People have been watching them for many years."

Up and down the hills they clattered briskly once more with the wagon, Rosinante doing her best to make a record for speed, with Nellie behind her. When they reached the top of the hill above the first spring, they left the wagon and scrambled down the steep, rocky pathway. At some little distance from the others, a separate pool for washing had been roofed over very picturesquely. It reminded one of old pictures of Hygeian temples. The sides were open, allowing the looker-on to see the washerwomen, squatting on their heels, soaping the clothes or leaning over the steaming water. Young and old, to the number of perhaps a dozen, they worked and chattered, apparently altogether oblivious of those who regarded them.

Flat granite slabs served them for washboards. Vigorously, indeed, did they ply their arms. Some were rinsing, a few wringing out, and others spreading the garments, white as snow, either on the ground or on the straggling bushes in the vicinity.

"I could watch them forever," said Nellie, when Walter, having made a little journey around the place with Francisco, told her he thought they should be going campward. "I'm going to ask mamma to let me come down here to-morrow and wash some napkins."

"Would they allow her to wash there?" asked Walter.

"Yes, if she would like; anyone can," said Francisco. "But always, I think, the white people come about from ten to twelve in the morning."

"Oh, I wouldn't like that," said Nellie. "I want to go with the Indians and wash."

"Maybe you can do that, too," said Francisco. "Some time, when my cousin Leonidas is coming, I will ask that you may go along."

"You must not forget it, Francisco," said Nellie, reluctantly tearing herself away.

"Hi! hi! Chrysantha!" called Francisco to an old woman who waved her hand at them as they passed. Then he said something in Spanish. The old woman spoke to her companions. They all laughed merrily, nodding pleasantly to the children, and the old woman called out something several times to Francisco.

"What do they mean? What is she saying?" asked Nellie, looking back at them shyly.

"They are telling me you will be welcome to wash with them whenever you wish," said the boy. "They like you."

Arrived at the tent, Nellie admitted that she was tired. But Walter begged to be allowed to go back on the wagon with Francisco, who had to fetch some eggs to a lady in the village and draw some more water before evening.

Rosinante jogging leisurely along, they soon came in sight of the old adobe. The figure of a woman standing in the rear of the church at once attracted the attention of Francisco.

"It is the missionary lady!" he exclaimed. "It is the mother of William. She has come to say something about what has happened. How I wish she would stay away!"

The woman came forward to meet them. She was smiling; evidently she had not yet had an interview with her hopeful son.

The boys exchanged glances. Francisco breathed more freely.

"I am pleased to see that you are in a better humor to-day," she said sweetly. "And who is your companion?"

"My name is Walter Page," was the response. "I live in San Diego."

"Oh, do you? I have a dear friend there—the Reverend Mr. Binder. At present he is not serving any church. Like myself, he has been a missionary, and his health failed. Perhaps you have met him, my boy."

"I don't know any ministers," said Walter, rather brusquely. "We go to the Catholic church."

The lady's face grew more stern. She looked from one boy to the other.

"You never go to Sunday-school, then," she said in regretful tones, but as if stating an undeniable fact.

"I go every Sunday," said Walter.

"Does your priest allow it?"

"He teaches us," rejoined Walter.

"That must be something new—something entirely new."

Walter made no reply.

"It was my purpose, in coming here, to establish a Sunday-school," the missionary continued, true to her avocation. "I saw this boy and marked him," pointing to Francisco. "He looked intelligent, as though the others might follow his lead. But unfortunately he got into an altercation with my son, and I have taken no further steps with him."

Walter looked down, embarrassed upon hearing himself addressed personally. He hoped she was not going to ask him to be a leader. He would in that case tell her something, he now thought.

"It is difficult, very difficult, to accomplish anything. The mothers and fathers are indifferent, if not rude—the children the same."

Neither of the boys made a reply.

"The teacher tells me she has been here twelve years," went on the missionary, after waiting in vain for a remark. Her voice now began to lose its sweet accents and to savor of asperity.

"Twelve years—and she has not been able to make any impression—in a Christian way. She thinks you are all very good, but you cling to your old beliefs."

"And why not, please?" asked Francisco. "Why should we not keep to our own faith? Why do they give us teachers who are not of our religion? How many go there to that school?" pointing to the building, not far away. "Maybe twenty out of seventy-five children. To the Mission go the others, where they belong——"

"I think it is very cruel in the priests to insist on sending those children nearly a hundred miles from their parents to the Mission," said William's mother, growing warmer with every word.

"And the Indians think it is right—right to send them to the Mission, where they will learn their religion," answered Francisco with equal warmth. "The teacher is very good and kind, and the people are grateful to her for all she does, but if she should stay here twelve years longer, they will never give up what the Fathers have taught them."

"It is well, it is very well, my poor child," rejoined the missionary, compassionately, "that all whom she does teach are not so high-tempered as you are. What a time there would be in the school!"

"Why do you not leave us alone?" cried Francisco. "Do we trouble you? Do we try to make Catholics of you who come to our home here? Why do you not leave us alone?"

Walter was alarmed. He looked at his companion in surprise. The missionary drew back.

"Do not become violent," she said. "In India the natives were at least respectful. I wonder that your parents are not more careful of you than they are," she went on, turning to Walter. "They should not allow you to associate with such a rude person."

The boy's cheek flushed; he turned away without replying.

"Come, Francisco," he said in a low tone, pulling his companion by the sleeve. "Come; let us go into the house."

"I do not wonder you should wish to go away, my boy. You are probably ashamed of the conduct of your friend. I hope, at least, that you are."

"I am not ashamed," said Walter. "Neither of us is. We have no reason to be ashamed."

"You have been badly brought up," continued their tormentor. "You have been badly brought up—very badly."

They waited to hear no more, but walked quietly onward until they found shelter within the crumbling doorway of the brown, smoky adobe.