Francisco paled visibly under his swarthy skin. Then his face grew a dark crimson.

"They think I have stolen it!" he exclaimed. "I have never been in the house of that woman. No one can say that they have ever seen me there."

"So I told them. But there is someone there who saw you yesterday near the ramada[E] next door," said Mauricio.

"What of that, uncle? Do I not go every other day with water to the people who live there? And is not the water kept under the ramada?"

"Very true. But there is much loud talking down there. She threatens to have you arrested."

"But you are the constable. You will not put me in the cuartel?"

"I must, if there is sworn out a warrant," replied Mauricio, sadly.

"Come, come," said Mr. Page, "it will not amount to that, I hope. Let us go down at once to the house where the money was stolen and see what they have to say—on what grounds, if any, they accuse you."

"That is the best thing to do," assented Mauricio. "It will show that you are not afraid."

The children stood amazed, grieved, and silent. Their busy minds imagined all sorts of dire possibilities for their friend Francisco.

Without a word Francisco followed the two older men, his head erect, his eyes fearless and unashamed. People looked at them in passing, nearly all in sympathy, for Francisco was a favorite with all the visitors save the very few friends of the missionary woman. The crowd had not diminished when they reached the house, and all eyes were turned toward them.

"Where is the person who has lost a pocket-book," inquired Mr. Page, looking from one to another.

"Inside," replied a man, a cripple whom Francisco had often assisted at the baths. "She is quite hysterical. I hear it contained a large sum of money. I'll never believe Francisco had anything to do with the theft."

Mr. Page did not reply. The boy gave his defender a grateful look before passing into the house with the others.

The loser of the pocket-book sat in a rocking-chair, somewhat calmer and more composed than she had been when Mauricio left her. The sight of Francisco, however, seemed to bring on a renewal of her excitement until Mr. Page said:

"Pray be quiet, madam, until we have learned something of the particulars of this theft. I am here on behalf of this boy, whom, I am told, you accuse of having taken your pocket-book. It is a very serious accusation."

William, stationed back of his mother's chair, darted a triumphant glance at the Indian boy. Francisco stood, cap in hand, silently awaiting what the woman had to say. With a hysterical gulp, she began:

"I always keep my pocket-book with me, usually in my bosom. Yesterday, while I was lying in the hammock, a pedlar came with some notions. I bought from him a paper of pins. After paying him I put the pocket-book under the pillow of the hammock. I distinctly remember doing that. Afterward I dozed off, and upon awaking forgot all about the pocket-book. Everybody was at the baths at the time, and I hurried there so as to get my bath before dinner.

"When I came back, the Indian boy was just going off with his water-wagon. I would have spoken to him, but he avoided me. I attributed this to surliness at the time, but now I believe it was because he was guilty and could not meet my eye."

Francisco was about to speak, but Mr. Page said: "Not yet, Francisco; not yet. Is this all the evidence you have against the boy, madam?" he continued.

"No, it is not," she rejoined. "I did not miss the pocket-book until this morning. As soon as I did miss it I went to the hammock. It was not there. My neighbor first put it into my head that the boy might have taken it."

"Please let me speak a word," now interrupted a kindly-looking, gray-haired woman sitting near the missionary. "I am Mrs. Minkson's nearest neighbor. We have the ramada in common. I want everyone in this room and in this village to understand, first and foremost, that I had no idea of accusing Francisco when I said what I did. When Mrs. Minkson came to me and told me she had lost her money, she also asked me if I had seen anyone about the place yesterday. I told her no, only Francisco just as I was coming up from my bath. I saw him stoop and pick up a blanket from the ground and throw it on the hammock. He was coming then with water for me. I saw him before he reached the ramada and when he went away. I never meant that Mrs. Minkson should think he had taken her pocket-book."

"May I speak now, Mr. Page?" Francisco asked.

"Yes; tell what took place while you were in the neighborhood," said Mr. Page.

"Yesterday I came here with water about eleven o'clock," began the boy. "There was no one around. I saw Mrs. Plummer coming up from the bath-house. When I went by the hammock a blanket was lying on the ground. So it wouldn't be trampled on by someone nor get wet from my barrel, I picked it up and laid it at the foot of the hammock. I left the water for Mrs. Plummer and went away. That is all I know."

A murmur arose from the crowd, whether of approbation or the contrary could not well be determined. Mr. Page was too much concerned to notice it. Francisco and his uncle also were preoccupied.

"I believe your story, Francisco," said Mr. Page. "I trust that everyone here believes it. I can see nothing in what has been told to warrant the accusation made."

"That isn't all," exclaimed William, from behind his mother's chair. "I know something worse than that, I do."

"Out with it at once, my boy," said Mr. Page. "Let us hear everything you know."

"Well, I didn't tell this before, but I saw Francisco last night with a twenty-dollar gold-piece in his hand, standing in the restaurant."

"William," protested his mother, sharply, pushing him away from her, "didn't I tell you that had nothing to do with it. There was no gold in that pocket-book."

The crowd laughed, and William, nothing daunted, went on:

"I think it's mighty funny when an Indian like him can throw twenty-dollar gold-pieces 'round."

Francisco looked at Mr. Page; that gentleman nodded.

"In order to clear the boy of any suspicion these ill-advised and malicious remarks may have aroused in the minds of his hearers," he said, "I will now state that I gave Francisco the gold-piece to have changed for me at the restaurant."

A white boy in Francisco's position would have faced his opponent with a triumphant smile; the Indian did not even look toward him. But he glanced gratefully at Mr. Page, and the face of Mauricio grew less grave and troubled than it had been.

"I should like to ask," said Mr. Page, once more turning to the missionary, "whether you may not have been mistaken as to where you placed your pocket-book? Have you looked everywhere about the house?"

"No, sir; I have not been mistaken," she replied. "I remember perfectly well having put it under the pillow. It is very easy to go through this house. There is not even a closet in it. Where could it be hidden?"

"Have you looked under the mattress?"

"No, sir; I have not. I never put money under a mattress."

"'Tis my belief, 'tis my belief," whispered a rheumatic old Irishman to Mr. Page, "that the b'y yonder," pointing to William, "has got up some thrick agin the Indian. He have a great spite agin him."

"You don't believe he has hidden the money, do you?" inquired Mr. Page.

"I do, ye know," was the reply. "He's the divil's own limb—that same youngster. And they both of them, mother and son, have a great spite agin the Indians because they're Catholics. 'Tis a shame, sir, to have that innocent crathur accused in this way."

"It is," agreed Mr. Page. "But no one who knows him will believe it. Further, there is not the slightest evidence to support the woman's accusation."

The old man looked at him quizzically. "You are a lawyer, I believe, sir," he said.

"Yes, I am," replied Mr. Page.

"From your point of view you are right, sir," replied the old man deliberately. "There's nothing agin him. But—but," he continued with greater deliberation, laying his shriveled hand on Mr. Page's arm, "till that b'y's cleared, till the pocket-book's found or the real thief's caught—there always will be a suspicion agin him as long as he lives."

"I agree with you," said Mr. Page. "The matter is very unfortunate. But we are powerless in the matter. We can do nothing."

The old man shook his head sadly, and was about to leave the house when his glance rested on the edge of the throng near the door. His old eyes brightened. Again laying his finger on Mr. Page's coat-sleeve, he said, in a low voice:

"If I'm not mistaken here is someone who'll go to the root of the matter without much more ado. He'll put things through in a hurry. He'll find the pocket-book or the thief, or he'll know why."

Following the old man's glance, Mr. Page saw an Indian parting the crowd. He was very tall and well-built, and his features were somewhat rugged. An air of authority betokened him a person of some importance.

"It's the Captain," said the old man. "It's Cecilio, the head man of them all. Wait, now, till ye hear him."

The Indian stepped to Mauricio's side.

"As I came through the village," he said, "I heard of the trouble." Then they talked together in their own language. Presently Cecilio went over to Mrs. Minkson.

"Madam," he said, politely in excellent English, "they say a pocket-book has been lost here by you, and that you suspect this boy, Francisco, to be the thief.

"I am the Captain of this village, and when we have sent away this crowd of people, or, at least, made them stand on the outside, we will search the house thoroughly."

"You have no right to search my house," said the missionary. "It has been done already."

"I have a right, and I will use it," he said. "Will you go out, please, my good friends, so that we may not be hindered?"

The people, complying with his request, slowly left the house.

"This is my good friend, Mr. Page," said Francisco. "May he not stay with us here?"

"Yes; that is all right," said Cecilio. "It is better that we have a witness."

"Or two," said the old Irishman, coming nearer to Mr. Page.

"Or two," repeated Cecilio, smilingly.

"Now, madam, will you kindly open these boxes and search through your clothing?" requested the Captain.

"I tell you I will not do it," said Mrs. Minkson. "This is an outrage. This is my house while I am in it, and you dare not order me to do anything I do not choose."

"Very well, madam," calmly remarked the Indian; "then we look ourselves."

"You are up to some trick," said the missionary. "The boy has probably handed it to you, and you will pretend to find it. You shall not search my house. Go out of here—go out!"

The two Indian men again conversed in low tones. Then Cecilio said:

"It is either that you look, or that we do. You will choose. They say that you left it in the hammock. Will you go first to the hammock, please?"

The woman saw determination in the eyes of the Captain. Very slowly she walked to the door and stepped to the ramada, in front of which the crowd still lingered. She lifted the pillow and was about to replace it, protesting loudly, "This is a farce," when it fell to the ground, the open end of the cover facing downward. Out of this end a brown leather pocket-book rolled toward the feet of the spectators.

Quite a tumult of congratulation ensued. Francisco soon became the centre of a sympathetic throng. Mrs. Minkson, very much discomfited, was not one of them. On the contrary, she hurried into the house without a word and closed the door.

Cecilio turned to the spectators and, laying his hand on the shoulder of Francisco, said:

"My good friends, I see that you have not believed this boy a thief. You have seen that the woman, instead of putting the pocket-book under the pillow, placed it by accident in the cover. Some of you who are here know us very well. To others we are strangers. But it is just and right that the strangers should learn what is very well known to all who are our friends; and it is this:

"For more than twenty-five years the Hot Springs have been visited by white people; we have thrown open to them our houses, and we have moved out of them, going elsewhere to live; we have always kept away from them, staying in our own dwellings and going our own ways. That no one can deny. And in all those years, in this village where no door is ever locked, never once has an Indian been known to enter a house where the people were not—not once has anything been stolen by an Indian. That, my friends, can be proved.

"Francisco, this boy here, is without father and mother, but he has been always good, always faithful, always industrious, always honest. And to-day he has not lost his good name. Soon we Indians must leave our homes, soon we must be cast out of the place of our fathers; but, at least, if it be God's will thus to chastise us, let it not be said at the end what has never been said of us—that we are thieves or robbers."

With a courteous wave of the hand, he passed through the crowd and quickly remounted his horse, a fine animal, on which he sat like a cavalier of old. As he rode away there arose a cheer from the crowd for "Captain Cecilio."

The people—whites and Indians—gathered round Francisco, and nearly everybody shook his hand. The boy received their good wishes quietly but gratefully, with the natural dignity of his race. After many a pause on the road he returned to the tent with Mr. Page and Mauricio. The good news had preceded them, and the children shouted for joy; Walter loudly expressed his belief that the whole thing had been a plot devised by the missionary for the ruin of their friend. For this he was immediately reproved by his parents for rash judgment and want of charity, but subsided only after several reminders.

Francisco reported the next day that Mrs. Minkson had apologized to him for her suspicions, which action showed her to be possessed of a Christian spirit, even though mistaken zeal had carried her out of her own province. The boy William remained implacable to the end.