deceived; but her observing and discriminating powers were not in focus, so far as Ramona was concerned. The girl was curiously outside of the Señora's real life. Shelter, food, clothes, all external needs, in so far as her means allowed, the Señora would, without fail, provide for the child her sister had left in her hands as a trust; but a personal relation with her, a mother's affection, or even interest and acquaintance, no. The Señora had not that to give. And if she had it not, was she to blame? What could she do? Years ago Father Salvierderra had left off remonstrating with her on this point. “Is there more I should do for the child? Do you see aught lacking, aught amiss?” the Señora would ask, conscientiously, but with pride. And the Father, thus inquired of, could not point out a duty which had been neglected.
“You do not love her, my daughter,” he said.
“No.” Señora Moreno's truthfulness was of the adamantine order. “No, I do not. I cannot. One cannot love by act of will.”
“That is true,” the Father would say sadly; “but affection may be cultivated.”
“Yes, if it exists,” was the Señora's constant answer. “But in this case it does not exist. I shall never love Ramona. Only at your command, and to save my sister a sorrow, I took her. I will never fail in my duty to her.”
It was of no use. As well say to the mountain, “Be cast into the sea,” as try to turn the Señora's heart in any direction whither it did not of itself tend. All that Father Salvierderra could do, was to love Ramona the more himself, which he did heartily, and more and more each year, and small marvel at it; for a gentler, sweeter maiden never drew breath than this same Ramona, who had been all these years, save for Felipe, lonely in the Señora Moreno's house.
Three watchers of Ramona now. If there had been
