True to his Indian nature, Francisco made no further allusion to the episode with the missionary. After unharnessing Rosinante, he began searching for eggs. When he and Walter had found a couple of dozen, he placed them in an old tin pail and said:

"I will let the horse rest now for an hour, and then I must go to the spring for a barrel of water again. But first, if you like to come with me, I will take these eggs to the lady that lives in the doctor's house."

"Have you a doctor here?" asked Walter.

"Not now," Francisco hastened to say. "But once, for three years, we had. There was also a woman they called a matron to teach our women to sew and keep house. How funny that was—how funny! They would not give us our own teachers—the Sisters, or some Catholics. They sent us a teacher—who is kind, but who hates the Catholic religion—and another man and woman, the doctor and matron, who had nothing at all to do to earn their good salary of seventy-five dollars a month. It was too plain—that fraud—my uncle said, and so they took them away. But altogether they cost as much as would have kept ten sisters in the place."

They were passing the church now, and Walter said:

"See, Francisco, the window is open. It was not when my father and Nellie and I came up this morning."

"You did not open it?" asked the Indian boy, setting down his pail.

"No, indeed," replied Walter. "We would not do such a thing."

"It is kept always shut—the church," said Francisco. "I must look in."

He leaned across the sill; then, after lightly vaulting over, he said:

"Who has done this?"

"What?" eagerly inquired Walter, following him.

Francisco pointed to the walls. At regular intervals, where the stations are usually hung, colored scriptural prints had been placed, each fastened with a large pin, as they were unframed. They were scenes from the New Testament, in themselves rather pretty, and not inappropriate as illustrations of texts of Scripture.

"They are pretty, but they are not suitable for the stations," said Walter.

"I think it must be the missionary woman who has done this," said Francisco. "I will not take them down. I will ask some older person to do so. Perhaps my uncle will be home for Sunday. She did not do it for good, I am sure."

"Perhaps she did, Francisco," said Walter. "We ought not to be too hard on her."

"Maybe; but I know them. We shall see. Anyhow, it is not right for her to come into the church by the window like a thief. She knew very well, I think, that we would not want her to hang her pictures around."

Closing the window again, Francisco took up his pail of eggs. The boys parted under the old oak, Walter fearing his father and mother would not like him to remain away longer.

He learned that his mother had taken her first hot bath and was feeling "quite well," she said. The older people were very much interested in his recital of the encounter with the missionary, but reproved Walter for having answered her as he had done.

"But, papa," he said, "I couldn't help it. I had to say something, and I wasn't going to give in to her by acting as if we were wrong or that I was ashamed of being a Catholic. You would not have wished me to do that."

There was reason in his argument the elders admitted. His father added, however, that it was always better to steer clear of such persons if possible.

And so the day, so full of incident, closed. Supper was hardly over before the tired children went to rest.

So day succeeded day in this primitive mountain village. The children gradually became acquainted with the Indians, who were very kind to them. Nellie now went regularly to the Lavenderia with handkerchiefs and napkins, and the Indian women willingly made a place for her. They laughingly watched her attempts at washing, which was generally accomplished for her by one or another of them in the end. The gold medal of the Immaculate Conception, which she wore attached to a thin chain around her neck, was the sign of a bond of kinship between them.

On Sunday morning at eight o'clock the sweet, pure tones of the church-bell rang out upon the air, sounding singularly beautiful through the clear, still atmosphere.

"There will not be Mass to-day, Walter?" inquired Mr. Page of his son, whose intimacy with Francisco he thought warranted him well posted in the affairs of the village.

"No, sir," was the reply. "If Mauricio, Francisco's uncle, has returned, he will say the prayers, and if he hasn't, someone else will."

"We must go, at any rate," said his father. "It will be, I imagine, both devotional and interesting to assist at the prayers."

Mrs. Page was unable to walk so far. Aunt Mary, glad of an excuse for avoiding close proximity to the Indians, toward whom she had an aversion which she could not conquer, decided to remain at home to keep her company.

From all directions groups of Indians—the women and children cleanly, if gaudily, attired—were wending their way to the church. The last bell began to ring as they climbed the steep elevation on top of which it stood. The people sat around the entrance; on the ground several very old women were crouched, motionless and patient.

Francisco came from the inside and opened wide the door. The congregation poured in—the men on one side, the women on the other. Nearly all the latter had shawls over their heads, few being without a tinge of red in their costumes. After Francisco had lighted two candles on the altar, an old woman left her place and went forward, kneeling on the steps of the little sanctuary. She recited the Rosary in Spanish, the people responding in low but distinct and reverent tones. After she had said one decade, she began another, reversing the prayers, saying the "Holy Mary," first, the people answering with the "Hail, Mary." The third decade was repeated in the usual manner, the fourth like the second. At the fifth, instead of praying as before, she lowered her voice to a sweet, monotonous chant.

"Dios te salve, Maria," she sang, and the others answered in the same fashion, "Santa Maria, Madre de Dios," till the decade was ended. It was all very strange and beautiful; the sweet voices of the dark-skinned worshipers, deprived of their priests and teachers, coming Sunday after Sunday thus to preserve and perpetuate the services of their religion. Other prayers, also in Spanish, were said, and the old woman returned to her place.

Francisco was about to extinguish the candles, when the door of the sacristy opened, and a tall, finely-formed Indian, about fifty years of age, issued forth. The boy stepped aside; the newcomer advanced to the railing. His sharp eyes seemed to rest at once upon the pictures which had been placed on the walls during the preceding week. He addressed the people in Spanish; then, pointing to the pictures, asked in English:

"Who can tell the person who has hung those pictures around the walls of the church?"

No one answered. The Indians, whispering among themselves, made various gestures of disapproval.

"You will all see that although they are very good pictures," he continued, "they are not for our church. We do not need them. We have here already the Sacred Hearts of Our Lord and His Mother; a kind lady would have given us also the stations, but for the removal which we must soon make from this—our home."

Here those of his hearers who understood English—all the younger people and many of the others—made sorrowful gestures. Some of them uttered a peculiar wailing sound.

"It will be now our duty to find who has put those pictures where they are, and give them back to the person who placed them."

Then, as if struck by a sudden thought, the Indian turned to Francisco.

"Have you loaned the key to someone this week?" he inquired.

"No, uncle," replied the boy, "I have not given it to anyone; but somebody has come in through the window: one day I found it open." So saying, he glanced toward the door where some white persons were seated.

At this point a woman arose and stepped about midway up the aisle.

"The missionary lady," whispered Walter to his father. "Now there will be a fuss."

"I wish to state," said the woman, in tones that could be distinctly heard all through the church, "I wish to state that I placed those beautiful pictures where they are. I intended to offer them to the person whom they call 'the priest,' hoping that he would hang them for the benefit of the congregation, wherever he pleased. Hearing he was absent, I took the liberty of entering, and pinning them above the crosses, which I consider superstitious emblems."

"Francisco," said the tall Indian, "remove from the wall those pictures, and give them to the lady.

"Pedro," he continued, addressing a boy close by, "you take down on one side, so that it will be quicker."

"But, my good man," began the missionary, "if you do not wish to let them stay where they are, at least keep them and hang them where you will."

"We thank you, madam, for your kindness," said the Indian, "but we do not, as I said, need them. We have already our own."

Francisco and Pedro with lightning celerity had already removed the unwelcome prints and were offering them to the would-be donor. Reluctantly receiving them, she went slowly back to her seat, near the door, followed by glances from the Indians which would have alarmed Aunt Mary.

When the congregation dispersed, the members found the missionary awaiting them at the threshold. She proffered them the pictures as they came out, but the Indians rejected them. Some looked at her stolidly and passed on as though they did not see her; others merely shook their heads, but not one accepted a picture. Mr. Page, with his children, had stopped near the entrance, wishing to speak to Francisco's uncle.

"Tell me, sir," said the "missionary lady," "why these people refuse the prints I have offered them? They should, it seems to me, be very grateful, instead of rejecting them in so surly a manner. I confess they are a mystery to me."

"Probably they were not pleased with your methods," replied Mr. Page, coldly. "You never see Catholics forcing their beliefs or customs on Protestants in this manner."

"I forgot, sir, that you were likely to be one of them," replied the amiable missionary, darting a glance of displeasure at Walter, who stood beside his father. The incident ended her missionary labors in the village of the CupeÑos. Thenceforward she transferred her efforts to other fields, farther from home. But the consequences were more far-reaching than anyone could have foreseen.

Mr. Page waited until Francisco came out, followed by his uncle.

"This is my uncle," said the boy. "These are good Catholics," he continued, pointing to the group.

The Indian extended his hand.

"I came to-day a little late," he said, "but not too late, I think, to make one more person see that we do not want their tracts or their pictures or their preachings. They may do what they will, but we are Catholics to the end—except, perhaps, some few who find later they would have been better off to remain as they were. Did any of our people take pictures?"

"Not one," said Mr. Page. "It was quite interesting to see how utterly they ignored them."

"That is good," murmured Mauricio. "That finished it."

"I wanted to ask," said Mr. Page, while the children strolled slowly away together, "why they say the Rosary in that way, reversing the prayers at every other decade, and why they finish it in a chant. It is very odd, but exceedingly beautiful."

"I believe they change the prayers as they do because in the beginning the Fathers found it helped them in teaching the 'Hail, Mary,' and 'Holy Mary,' You see, when the Father said always the 'Dios te salve,' or, the 'Hail, Mary,' as you call it, the people did not learn it so well as when they said it themselves. And for the chanting—that was like a hymn at the end."

"I see," said Mr. Page. "And I think you did exactly as you should have done with regard to that officious woman. I am glad to have my children know your nephew. He is a good boy, and very bright. You ought to be proud of him."

"So far he is very good," rejoined Mauricio. "He is also very smart for one who has not been long at school. We have some land here; together we make a living, with what we get from the visitors. One of those houses over there belongs to me. In the summer I lease it; in the winter we go back to it again. But this will end soon. There is no more hope for us; we must go."

"It seems to be inevitable," said Mr. Page.

"It is sad for all of us, but worse for the old people. Some of them will not believe it. Some of them say they will not go, but will lie down and die on the roadside. It is very sad. Next week there is to be a Junta. But what good will that do?"

"What do you mean by a Junta?" inquired Mr. Page, who was not familiar with Spanish.

"A meeting of the Indians and the white men who have been appointed to find another place for us. But I can not see what good it will do."

"Perhaps the Indians can then say what place they would prefer."

"That, they will never say, I am sure," said Mauricio. "They want no home but this."

Three or four boys now appeared above the slope of the hill. William, in the lead, had a gun in his hand.

"We've been driving rabbits," he said as they passed. "Some day we'll have better luck—and it won't be long, either—driving the Indians away from Warner's."

"You are a very rude boy," said Mr. Page.

"I'm not an old Catholic," sneered the urchin, filliping a small stone directly at Mauricio, who made a step forward.

"We have a cuartel[A] here, youngster," he said. "For a long time it has been empty; we are a peaceful people. But we can have unruly persons put into that cuartel if we wish. Be careful, youngster; be careful."

The threat seemed to be effectual. The boys hurried down the hill. Bidding Mauricio and Francisco good-day, Mr. Page and his children walked slowly homeward.