“Majella, the chapel is lighted; but that is good!” exclaimed Alessandro, as they rode into the silent plaza. “Father Gaspara must be there;” and jumping off his horse, he peered in at the uncurtained window. “A marriage, Majella,—a marriage!” he cried, hastily returning. “This, too, is good fortune. We need not to wait long.”
When the sacristan whispered to Father Gaspara that an Indian couple had just come in, wishing to be married, the Father frowned. His supper was waiting; he had been out all day, over at the old Mission olive-orchard, where he had not found things to his mind; the Indian man and wife whom he hired to take care of the few acres the Church yet owned there had been neglecting the Church lands and trees, to look after their own. The Father was vexed, tired, and hungry, and the expression with which he regarded Alessandro and Ramona, as they came towards him, was one of the least prepossessing of which his dark face was capable. Ramona, who had never knelt to any priest save the gentle Father Salvierderra, and who had supposed that all priests must look, at least, friendly, was shocked at the sight of the impatient visage confronting her. But, as his first glance fell on Ramona, Father Gaspara's expression changed.
“What is all this!” he thought; and as quick as he thought it, he exclaimed, in a severe tone, looking at Ramona, “Woman, are you an Indian?”
“Yes, Father,” answered Ramona, gently. “My mother was an Indian.”
“Ah! half-breed!” thought Father Gaspara. “It is strange how sometimes one of the types will conquer, and sometimes another! But this is no common creature;” and it was with a look of new interest and sympathy on his face that he proceeded with the ceremony,—the other couple, a middle-aged Irishman, with his more than middle-aged bride, standing
