Chapter II: Part 2

At first they thought some of the servants had returned and taken it to some other room; but when they had searched the whole house, and ran, calling in vain, through the garden, they were almost wild with fright.

Tears streamed from the eyes of the young girl as she looked helplessly into the face of old Macata, who tore her long hair, and moaned piteously. She could not cease looking, although it seemed hopeless.

“In so short a time to disappear, and leave no trace behind to aid this search!” The child! The poor little innocent child she loved so dearly, gone, she knew not where! How could she meet the father and mother?

Thus, full of despair, she ran about, looking in vain, and calling wildly upon her darling, until the señor and his wife returned.

To picture the scene that followed would be impossible. The torturing grief of the unhappy father was mingled with all the terrors of suspense, and the desolate heart of the sorrowing mother refused to be comforted. Day and night she sobbed bitterly, “Would that God had taken my baby to himself!”

The whole country was roused. The search continued for many days, till hope died out in every heart. Then it was that a fearful fever seized the mother, exhausted by grief, want of sleep, and the fatigues of a hopeless search. For weeks her life was despaired of; and when at last the fever left her, the light had gone from her eye, the smile from her lips, and the hope of happiness from her heart.

The old Macata never left her side. At first the mother shuddered when she came near; but as she looked upon the hair of the old woman, which, since the loss of the child, had become white as the driven snow, her heart softened, and she shed her first tears upon the bosom of the penitent and sorrowing nurse.

For many weeks the luxury of tears had been denied her, and, from that first bursting of the flood-gates of her grief, she could not bear the old Indian long out of her sight. A mutual sorrow bound their hearts together.

Macata could never do enough for the dear, sad señora, but sometimes she would go to her, saying, “Bless me now, señora dear; I am going to look for our baby.”

Then the señora would bless her, and say, “Go, my poor Macata.”

All day long she roamed through woods, down deep into the shadowy cañons, or upon the mountain tops. After weary hours, and sometimes days, of fruitless search, she would return, worn and heart-broken with her vain wanderings. Kneeling before the señora, weeping, and wringing her hands, she would cry, “Oh! dear señora, forgive me! I have not found our baby. I lost it, but I will find it. I will find it before I die, so help me, Wacondah, Great Spirit!”

Often the old woman fell fainting at the feet of her beloved señora, who would have her raised tenderly and placed upon the bed, where for hours she sat by her, watching and weeping.

Thus these two sorrowing ones, the broken-hearted mother and the grief-crazed nurse, became very dear to each other.

The father mourned deeply, but to the heart of man time brings its softening balm. He loved his wife fondly, and, for her sake, sometimes tried to waken a hope that the child might be restored to them. Yet within his shadowed heart he mourned the precious one as dead.

Very sadly he missed the tiny outstretched hands that once were sure to greet him, and that radiant little face that was all the world to him; and as months and years went by, whenever he looked upon a little maiden full of grace and beauty, he would press his hand to his heart in sorrow, for “what might have been.”

Sometimes the señora, leaning her weary head on his breast, would say: “I shall know my darling, no matter how many years shall pass before we meet.” Then she would clasp her hands, exclaiming: “What if I should die before Macata finds her? Then, oh! then, I shall know her in heaven,” she would bow her head lower upon the beloved breast in prayer. Thus she would remain till the tender voice of the hidalgo aroused her; then she would clasp her thin hands about his neck, and look pityingly into his eyes to see the sorrow of her heart reflected there.

Thus it was with the parents as the years passed sadly by, but all the while the seasons went and came again; the sunshine gladdened the earth; the rainbow beautified the shower; the flowers blossomed in the garden; and young hearts beat happily as theirs upon their bridal day.

* * * * *

On that bright morning of the _fête_ of Corpus Christi, which resulted so unfortunately for the hidalgo and the poor señora, Macata had not noticed that the garden gate was left unlocked, nor in her haste did she see the crouching form of a fierce-looking woman hiding behind the lime-tree.

No sooner was she and the young girl out of sight than the woman rose stealthily, and gathering up her coarse brown cloak around her, glided swiftly through the garden and into the room where the cradle stood, still moving from the parting motion of Macata’s hand. Glancing hastily around, she snatched up the still sleeping child, and wrapping it in the folds of her cloak, ran out of the garden, away from the road, on through the orange-grove, and before Macata and the girl returned, was far away out of sight.

Still on she went, through the vineyard, and over the hill beyond; nor did she pause for a moment after she entered the thick wood, until miles away in the dusk of the evening, deep down in a cañon she came to a rude cottage overhung with trees and rocks.

All day long the delicate child had been out in the burning sunshine, tasting nothing but a tortilla moistened in water.

When they entered the cottage she had cried herself to sleep, and her little head rested wearily upon the bosom of the woman who had stolen her from her mother and her happy home.

On the floor sat a little girl shelling beans. She was a poor, misshapen child of misfortune, with a sad mark of suffering upon her face, which, when the woman entered, deepened.

“Take this child, Catrina. Put it away anywhere--anywhere out of sight. It is hateful to me.” Then throwing off the brown cloak, and rubbing her hands, she drew near the fire, adding: “Be in a hurry, girl. Give me my supper, for I am tired and hungry.”

The young girl had taken the little one and laid it upon the bed, and, though there was an expression of surprise upon her face, she placed the supper upon the table without speaking. Then, placing chairs, she and the woman sat down together. Still not a word was spoken. By and by, after they had eaten, and the dishes were washed, the hearth swept, and more fagots heaped upon the fire, the girl pointed to the sleeping child.

“Let her be,” said the woman, crossly. “I can not support you in idleness. Go shell your beans.”

The girl placed a cup of milk at the fire, sat down again to her task, and, for a long time, nothing was heard but the crackling pods. At length the woman spoke.

“It is little use in talking to you, Catrina: but I must speak sometimes, and you are the only being I have, about me, and you can not tell what I say. You can not remember, Catrina! Many years ago I was beautiful; I was young. Now I am old, not with years! See this hair once so glossy--look at it.”

She caught out the comb with an angry grasp, and all over her neck and shoulders fell the heavy tangles of long, gray hair.

“I was young, beautiful, and beloved. Oh, it seems an age of years ago! I have been so wretched since. That child’s father caused his death! I lived! God knows how till your father came, and I married him. For love? Oh, no, for the poor protection that woman’s nature craves and a shelter from despair. But even this failed me!

“What a life for both! But I am revenged, ha! ha! They will wait long for their pretty darling, now.” The woman laughed wildly, and such a look of hate and exultation covered her face, that, in the fitful fire-light, was almost fiendish.

Catrina dropped her hands on her lap, and shuddered, while her eyes were fixed upon the wretched woman with a kind of fascination.

“Go to work! go to work! I say, you stupid little witch, what are you staring at? You look as if you were frightened out of the little sense you have.”

Again the woman laughed a strange laugh, that grated harshly upon the ear of the unfortunate girl. Tears filled her eyes, but still no reply.

Poor child! she had never spoken one word in her short but sorrowful life. She was only the poor little step-daughter of the woman, and since the death of her father she had been unhappy.

The noise had awakened the little one, and opening her large eyes, she looked around first with wonder, and then with fear, at the strange place and strange faces before her. The woman rose and took her in her arms.

“So, little chick, you are awake, and how do you think your lady mamma feels now, and your proud papa? Ha! ha! he never thought how I felt, when years ago he brought death to my heart, nor will I think of him.”

Slowly she began swaying the child to and fro, talking fiercely all the while. The tiny lips of the baby quivered, as, for a moment, she suppressed her cry, then a pitiful wail filled the cottage.

Catrina was preparing the bowl of bread and milk, and as she approached, the little one held out her hands, and when Catrina took her she hid her face in her bosom and sobbed softly. The child was hungry, and as the girl offered her the bread and milk, she ate it eagerly, but all the while her frightened gaze was fixed upon the face of the woman, who seemed to grow uneasy before the pitiful terror of those innocent eyes.

“It is always so now. Even this child shrinks from me, and I don’t mean to harm her. She has her bread and milk here, if it is not in a silver bowl. Ah! my heart is of stone, now--of stone!” and instinctively she folded her arms over her bosom, and, rocking herself, gazed into the fire as though she were reading the future in its fitful embers.

No wonder that the child, used only to tenderness, looked fearfully upon that pale, dark face, grown prematurely old. Her hair still hung over her shoulders, a long and tangled mass, all its purple luster, all its beauty gone forever. There was a strange, wild look about the eyes, and under them a dark, sunken circle. Far into the night she sat brooding over the glowing embers, till they were turned to blackened cinders.

That night Catrina had a more pleasant dream than she had known since her father died.

After the little one had eaten her supper, Catrina undressed her, and wrapping her in a blanket, placed her in her own bed, patting her caressingly with her hand till she fell asleep.

Catrina lay down beside her, and soon she dreamed that an angel came to the cottage and changed the darkness to light, that even her step-mother’s face grew gentle and tender, and her voice soft and low in that blessed presence. Her own weary heart grew light, and as she looked fondly at this angel, full of gratitude for her new-born happiness, she saw only the child before her, but clearly she heard these words, in the well-remembered tones of her father’s voice, saying:--

“This child shall be the angel of the house.” She awoke to find her face bathed in tears, and kissed the baby a hundred times, and in her silence prayed God to bless the darling.

Already the joy of an angel’s presence filled her heart. Poor little Catrina! She was only a child of ten years, yet her face looked pinched, old, and careworn. This was not strange for the work of the cottage fell to her small hands, and there was no one to say: “You have done well, my little Catrina.”

She could not remember her own gentle mother, nor when the step-mother came to them, but she never forgot the sad face of the dear papa, when he used to put his hand upon her tangled hair, saying: “Catrina, you will miss papa; no one else but my poor little desolate _Mijita mia, Mijita mia_.” Then he would turn to hide the tears that would not be driven back. In those days of illness he was helpless as Catrina in her babyhood.

One day, when the step-mother had been gone since the dawning, the father seemed to sleep, Catrina sat very silently for many hours, for young as she was, she did not wish to disturb poor sick papa when sleeping. She grew very weary, but still he did not wake; so she ran softly to the bedside, and looked at him till her heart grew faint. He lay so still, and was very pale; and when she climbed up and laid her little face against his, she shuddered and wept bitterly, it was so very cold. After a while the step-mother returned. Soon some men came and took the father away, and though they looked very rough, one of them stopped and gave her a tortilla, saying: “Poor little young one, she has lost her best friend.”

As soon as the little girl could do any thing, the step-mother gave her plenty of work. Thus the years went by till the eve of the _fête_ of Corpus Christi, when baby Gracia was brought to the cottage.

It seemed like the dawn of a new life to the lonely Catrina to look into that sweet baby face, and when the little one learned to love her and cry for her, though she found her task much heavier, her heart grew so light that her little hands worked wonders.

The woman took off the pretty coral necklace and sleeve clasps, and all the child’s fine clothes, and placed them in the strong oaken chest at the head of her bed. Little Gracia was dressed in clothes coarse as Catrina’s, but still she grew more lovely every day, and looked like a little princess in her rags.

Even the seared heart of the woman softened to the winning ways of the pretty child, though sometimes she would drive her away, exclaiming: “Go, go from me--I hate the race.” At other times she would take her in her arms, saying: “The baby is not to blame,” and with tears dimming her eyes, cover the little face with fond caresses.

* * * * *

Thus passed five long years at the cottage. Catrina had grown stronger, and more shapely. Her face was full of love and tenderness, though exposure had made her skin very rough and brown. Gracia had changed from babyhood to a sportive child, graceful as a young fawn.

One rainy night the woman came home very late, leaning heavily upon the arm of an old Indian, who with great difficulty supported her trembling steps. She was very ill, and she felt the cold shadow of death falling upon her.

Gracia was asleep, but Catrina sat by the fire waiting, and keeping the supper hot. She was frightened when she saw the pale face of the step-mother, and trembled with fear as she helped the Indian to lay her upon the bed.

For a few moments the sick woman was silent from exhaustion, but after a time she called Catrina to her.

“Listen to me, Catrina, for my time is growing short. I have been cruel to you at times, but you have been always good and true. Forgive me now, my poor Catrina as you pray the good Lord to forgive you.”

Here the woman grew so faint that she was obliged to stop speaking, and Catrina wept as though her heart would break.

Poor girl! she had been hardly used, but she knew no other fate; and though she did not love the step-mother as she did the little Gracia, it seemed very desolate to sit there by the dying woman who had given her a home, poor though it was. She pressed the cold hand to her lips, and buried her head in the bed-clothes.

“Oh! that child!” gasped the wretched woman. “Catrina, I have no time to lose. I see every thing so differently.

“I have been crazy, but all is clear now. Catrina, when you think of me remember me only as a poor suffering woman, and forgive me, as you hope for God’s mercy.

“But the child! in that trunk you will find her clothes and papers which will prove her birth. Her father is a good and true man, as I have learned this day. My life’s great wrong came from another’s hand.

“Promise me, Catrina, that you will never rest till you have restored her to her home, and the parents who love her.”

The step-mother’s words grew fainter, but her eyes, full of the brightness of expiring fires, were fixed upon Catrina, who reverently made the sign of the cross, and bowed her head in solemn acquiescence.

“Catrina,” she continued, “go up to the cañon, keeping to the right, then over the mountain path, till you come to the great wood.” A spasm of pain convulsed her, and she ceased speaking. In a few moments it passed away, and a calm happy smile settled upon her face.

“I repent of all my sins; I forgive even the murderer of him who was dearer than my life. Now, may God have mercy upon my soul.”

The husky voice was hushed, the clasped hands relaxed, and the suffering woman was dead!

“She has gone to the land of the Great Spirit, and He has blessed her,” said the Indian, filled with amazement to see the troubled face grow so calm in death.

They buried her in the shadow of the deep cañon, and the children were left alone. The kind Indian came every day to the cottage to look after them, bringing always a bag of tortillas and fruits.

One morning, about a week after the death of the step-mother, he found Catrina and Gracia just leaving the cottage. As he gave Catrina the tortillas she shook his hand long and kindly, and the tears glistened in her eyes, but she could not speak to tell him she was going away, never to rest, until she had led Gracia back to her home.

For many days the Indian returned with his bag of tortillas, and went sadly away, for the cottage was alone in the dusky shadows.

The children took the path to the right out of the cañon, then on up the steep mountain way. Catrina carried Gracia’s baby-clothes in her arms, and a large bag of tortillas, for she had eaten sparingly for a week, that she might have food for a long journey.

After awhile Gracia became weary, and then Catrina took her in her arms, though they seemed full, but the willing heart found a ready way to help her darling.

At last they reached the top of the mountain, so very worn and weary, that after they had eaten their dinners, Gracia fell heavily upon Catrina’s lap, but she could no longer support the weight of the child; so, folding her in her arms, they lay down upon the soft turf together and slept as soundly as though it had been a bed of down.

The shadows were growing very long when the young girls awoke, and all the west was glowing with fleecy amber clouds. The sunset in the clear pure atmosphere of the mountains seemed so much more rich and beautiful than in the dim cañon, that little Gracia’s eyes shone with delight.

“Oh! Catrina,” she exclaimed, “surely that is the glorious heaven we see before us. Do you not remember what the good padre told us, when he came to the cottage? Let us hurry, Catrina, ’tis not so very far. Perhaps we can get there before dark.”

Catrina caught the hand of the excited child, and making the sign of the cross, knelt down with her face toward the sunset, and prayed for the soul of the unhappy step-mother, for the little Gracia, whom she loved dearly, and last of all for herself.

The radiance of the sunset fell upon the poor dumb girl, and shed its shining beauty upon her face. When Catrina arose, Gracia looked at her with eyes full of eager wonder.

“How God loves you, Catrina,” she whispered. “He threw his glory all around you when you prayed.” Catrina smiled and kissed the child, and giving her a tortilla, they began to descend the mountain, but the twilight came on so fast that very soon they could hardly see their way.

Gracia clasped Catrina’s hand very closely, saying: “I should be afraid in the dark, only God loves you so much, and heaven is so near.”

Thus they went on as long as they could see, and then sat down in the darkness, and by and by slept again.

Catrina woke early in the morning, and seeing a lime-tree not far distant, covered with fruit, left Gracia sleeping, and ran to gather some. “It will be so nice with our dry tortillas,” she thought; “and dear Gracia will be pleased with the juicy fruit.”

She made great haste, fearing lest the child might wake, and be frightened at her absence, and in a short time she returned with her apron filled with the delicious fruit. Her face lighted with the smile of grateful love, as she saw the little girl still sleeping sweetly. A moment more and the happy smile was turned to an expression of intense horror.

Only a few feet from the child crouched the huge form of an immense cougar, his fierce eyes gloating with hungry fire upon his helpless prey.

Catrina remained transfixed for a moment, watching the wild beast, until he crouched to spring upon her darling; she then threw her arms over her head, rushed forward, and by what means, God knows, her intense terror burst the prison-bonds of sound, and the dumb girl gave one wild, shrill cry, that made the mountains echo.

Just at that moment came a sharp flash of light, and the cougar lay weltering in his blood.

The startled Gracia woke to find Catrina lying as one dead upon the ground, and a handsome young boy coming forward to help them. The little girl was much frightened, and, weeping bitterly, she threw her arms around Catrina and called piteously,--

“Oh, Catrina! Catrina! open your eyes; do not leave me, Catrina; God loves you, He has called you!”

Then Catrina opened her eyes, and said, with imperfect utterance, “Don’t cry, my darling. The cougar is dead. Don’t cry; he will not hurt you.” And she kissed Gracia, and cried as hard as the child.

“You! Catrina, you speak!” exclaimed little Gracia, as soon as she could speak, for Catrina’s caresses.

“You speak, who never spoke in your life. The good God heard your prayer last night. He shed His glory upon you, and now you speak.” They embraced each other, and wept for joy.

Then they noticed the handsome boy standing near them, resting upon his gun, and Catrina pressed his hand to her lips, and thanked him again and again.

They all went to look at the cougar together, and Catrina told the wondering Gracia how very near to heaven she had been, and young Leon De Lande told them both how he had started by moonlight to hunt in the mountains, and how he thanked God he had been able to save the little señorita.

They sat down to eat their tortillas and fruit, and then started for the valley. Poor Catrina! How delightful to be able to talk, though she needed practice to be able to speak plainly.

She was like a little child just learning, but she managed to let Leon know all about Gracia, and he, with delighted surprise, told her that he knew her father, who was the richest señor in all the country, and that in a few hours they could reach the vineyard.

Never were there happier young people than went down the mountain together. As they entered the wood, whom should they meet but poor old nurse, Macata, hunting for her lost darling.

“I have found the little señorita for you, good Macata,” said Leon. Macata gave one glance at Gracia, then caught her in her arms, exclaiming, “_Ninita mia! Ninita mia! Waconda!_ the Master of Life has heard my cry! I knew you were not lost for ever.”

The old Indian started off at full speed, carrying Gracia in her arms, sobbing all the time, and blessing the Great Spirit that she had lived to restore the lost child to the dear señora.

Leon and Catrina could barely keep pace with her, but at last they entered the very room, where, five years before, the beautiful child lay sleeping in her little willow cradle.

“I have brought her back, señora,” cried old Macata, out of breath. “It is our little white bud, señora, dear! Oh! _Alma mia! Mijita mia_, Waconda has not forgotten us!” The old woman placed the child in the mother’s arms, and fell with her face upon the floor, weeping for joy.

No words can tell the joy that filled the house. Only the heart of the father and mother could feel how greatly God had blessed them.

Now the years went pleasantly by. The good Catrina become a lovely maiden. Her form gained strength and beauty. Her hair grew soft and glossy; her skin clear and smooth, and her brown eyes were tender with the light of happiness. But, most wonderful of all, her voice was a marvel of sweetness. It was a great pleasure to hear her sing at evening, accompanied by the soft music of her light guitar. She was loved by all, but especially so by the young hidalgo, who won her for his bride.

Leon and Gracia danced together at the wedding, and it was plain enough to see how devoted the brave young señor was to the graceful señorita whose life he had saved.

Gracia had grown more and more beautiful every year, till in all the country she was called _La Bonita_.

She had many admirers, but the señor said, “Young Leon restored her to us, and to him only will we give our child.” Thus, upon her sixteenth birthday, the great wedding feast was made, and all San Diego around re-echoed the great joy. There were tables spread under the lime-trees for the poor, and all the country was there.

In the quaint adobe church the marriage ceremony was performed, and with a happy heart Leon received his bride, while the father and mother thanked God for His most blessed gifts, their son and daughter. Thus all their sorrows ended, and all their lives were circled by the light of happiness and love.

THE DANCING SUNBEAM.

In a dark, narrow street of the city stood a dingy tenement house. Many people lived within, and called it by the dear name of home; yet it was very different from the luxurious homes of the rich, surrounded by pleasant gardens, filled with costly pictures, and a thousand beautiful things very delightful to possess. Nor was it like the comfortable homes of the middle class, where the fire burns brightly in the polished grate, and the table is always plentifully spread. Oh, no! The people in the tenement house were all poor, from the first floor front to the attic back, which was the worst of all.

It was the rainy season, and through the roof, round the chimney, and between the cracked and loosened weather-boards, came the driving rain.

Then there was a continual opening and shutting of doors; and at the common entrance, all day long and far into the night, there was somebody always coming in, or going out, letting in the chilling blast, that rushed through the muddy halls, and into the rooms, pinching the sick and old in a pitiless way.

Altogether, it was not a pleasant place to live in; but most of the people in the tenement house had always been poor, and had learned to be content with what the day brought them, so they were not hungry. Only one in the house had known the luxury of being very rich, and she was now the poorest of them all.

Just under the roof she sat, wearily stitching upon the coarse work that must bring bread to her little child. How the rain pattered and clattered upon the roof, as the daintily-bred woman bent above her unaccustomed task, thinking over the old thoughts, that made the present more than desolate.

“It was not so once,” said the rain. “The old home, how comfortable and beautiful it was! There you were a fair lady with lily-white hands; now, you are the same, only one can not think so. There are silver threads in your hair, and your hands are too red. People say: ‘What a pity the woman with the pretty child is so poor!’ but they do not help you.”

“The old home! the old home!” echoed the sad thoughts all day long and into the still hours of the night.

In the corner of the room sat a little child, playing with a doll, made of an old apron; yet, to the child it was “the pretty Dolladine.”

She was very beautiful, with silken white hair, shimmered over with a golden luster. A little garden flower, thrown out by chance upon the common wayside, yet blossoming in her own sweet beauty, in contrast with every thing around her.

She was a real princess born, and her coarse, ragged clothes could make no difference.

The work was finished, and, though it was raining still, the mother put on her worn bonnet to take it home.

“If the sun would only shine again,” she sighed heavily, looking down into the dismal back alley; “but I must go.”

She kissed the child, saying, “Be good, darling--mamma will not be gone long.”

“I will be good, mamma,” she answered, “and Dolladine and I will catch the sunshine for you.”

“You are my only sunshine now,” said the mother, hastening away to conceal the tears that would not stay in their hiding-place.

Then the little one was left alone in the attic-room, and began, as she often did, to talk to her doll.

“Now, Dolladine,” she said, “mamma is very sad, and sick, I fear, and you and I must make sunshine for her; but how shall we do it? that is the question.

“Don’t you remember, Dolladine, one day the pretty lady said my hair was beaming sunshine? We must shake it out for poor mamma--we must shake it out;” and the little girl began jumping around the room, shaking her curls, and singing:--

“We will make the bright sunshine,
Dolladine, Dolladine;
Make for mamma glad sunshine,
Dolladine, Dolladine.”

Just then she saw the sunbeams dancing into the room. The rain was over, and, on the roof of the next house, a washerwoman was hanging out her clothes, which were blowing about in the wind, casting gleams of light and shadow upon the little attic window, so that the sunshine went flitting about like the will-o’-the-wisp, for the shadow was always chasing it.

The child was delighted. “Do you see it, Dolladine,” she said--“the glorious sunshine which the loving God gives us? Now, we must catch it for mamma.”

She took the doll in her arms, and gave chase to the dancing phantom. But it was no use; just as her little hand was ready to grasp it, it flew away.

“You don’t help me enough, Dolladine,” said the child, her little eyes filling with tears.

Just then, a great double-knock came at the door, and, before she could answer it, in walked a little old man, with a very wrinkled face and long white beard; a big hat almost covered his face, so that the upper part was all in shadow.

“What are you doing, little chick?” he said, pleasantly; “and where is the mother?”

“Mamma has gone to carry home the work,” answered the child, timidly; “and Dolladine and I have been making sunshine for her. But, see! it flies away!” and again she tried to catch the dancing beams.

“It often does from older and wiser hands than yours; but how did you make it, fairy?” asked the old man, laughing.

“God put it in my hair, and I shook it out for dear mamma, who is sick, and so tired of the dark days,” replied the little one, again shaking her pretty curls, that were luminous with beauty.

“I see!” said the old man. “Now, I am a great magician, and can help you;” and he sang, with a clear, ringing voice:--

“Sunshine, sunshine, flitting and airy,
Dwell in the heart of the little fairy;
Make her gentle, loving, and mild,
Make her the mother’s sunshine child.”

Just at that moment the washerwoman took down a big sheet, and the little room was flooded with warm, glowing sunshine.

“Oh! it is glorious, is it not, Dolladine?” exclaimed the child, clapping her hands, and dancing about with pleasure. “Mamma will be so happy, and so will Dolladine and I.”

“Remember,” said the old magician, “that all good comes from the loving God, who has blessed you, and made you the sunshine child. You can make the mother and every one very happy, so long as you keep God’s sunshine in your heart; but if you forget the blessed Christ, it will fly away, and will not be the warm, beautiful light of God’s love, but only the dancing sunshine that always escapes your grasp. And then, how sad! you would change to the little stormy-weather child, which would be worse than the darkest winter’s day to the dear mother.”

“Oh! no, no! I will never forget to bless the good God. It is so delightful to make mamma and every one happy.”

“This box,” said the old man, “is full of sunshine; I will give it you for the mother.”

“Let me kiss you, dear magician,” said the child, gently; “I always love anybody who is kind to poor mamma.”

The old man took the little one in his arms, and kissed her fondly, saying, “God bless you, darling; God bless you!” Then he went away, to be her life-long friend.

“I am so happy, I can not keep still, Dolladine,” said the child; and she danced about till the mother came in, weary and worn. “Oh! mamma,” said she, running up and kissing her, “we shall always be happy now, in God’s glorious sunshine, and the old magician gave me this box, full of it, for you, mamma.”

It was some time before the mother could understand all; but when she opened the box, sure enough, it was full of sunshine. There was the missing deed, that restored to her her own--the dear old home, and all her great wealth.

Again she became the fair lady with the lily-white hands; but her greatest joy was in the warm, genial sunshine her good little daughter made. From a child she grew up to be a loving, beautiful, and pure woman. But she never forgot the good God, and, all her life, remained the mother’s sunshine child.

THE YOUNG GOLD-SEEKER.

In the olden time, between the Mission of San Gabriel and Los Angeles, lived an old Spaniard, his wife, and one son.

In his early manhood, Don Pedro had been very rich, but sickness and misfortune had followed him, until, in his old age, he was destitute of many of the comforts of life.

Sorrowful and dispirited, he looked forward to death as the only portal of hope for future repose.

Francisco, his son, was full of youthful ambition and ardent life.

One morning he went to the bedside of his father and mother, and kneeling down beside them begged their blessing.

“I am going,” he said, “dear father and mother, to retrieve your fallen fortunes.”

The father blessed him, and bade him Godspeed, but the mother wept and clasped her arms about him, till her silver hair mingled with the glossy black of his; and when he tore himself regretfully from her embrace, she called him again and again to return for one more kiss. At last, when he rushed out, and was nearly gone from her, she buried her head in the bed-clothes and sobbed as if her heart would break.

Francisco was at first greatly saddened and subdued by his dear mother’s grief; but soon with the fresh morning air, the elastic spirits of youth, rose joyous and hopeful, and he sung merrily as he wandered on through the open country.

He had taken with him some tortillas (coarse Indian-meal cakes) and dried beef.

When he was hungry, he sat down in the shade, ate sparingly of these and of the delicious fruits that abound through all the country, and drank from the clear spring.

Thus passed the first few days of his journeying; but there came a time, when, out in the desert, his food became exhausted, and there were no cooling springs bubbling up from the yellow heat of the burning sand.

There were no trees, no fruit, no shade. He wandered on for two days and nights, until nature was almost exhausted, and when the third night came, he threw himself upon the sand to die.

He prayed devoutly to the Holy Virgin to intercede for his soul, and grant his fevered body rest; when, as he turned his head wearily, far out on the desert gleamed a light.

Hope rose in his bosom, and he drew his aching limbs onward, till nearer and nearer gleamed the blessed light from a cool oasis in the desert. Soon his foot pressed the soft turf, and green trees waved above his head.

The blessed Virgin had pitied him and listened to his prayer. He was saved.

He thought the waters of the running stream the sweetest music he had ever beard, and bending over, with his hand he raised to his parched lips a draught of holy water--for ’twas the Mother of Mercy’s gift--the gift of life.

Extreme thirst is the most intolerable of all sufferings--greater far than hunger. None but those who have endured its pangs, can have the least idea of the excruciating pain it brings.

After Francisco had drank the water, he was for a time very sick, but soon was sufficiently relieved to long for food and rest, so again he looked for the light that had guided him to the oasis.

Just before him, from the thicket of palm-trees it gleamed. He drew near cautiously, fearing it might prove the encampment of hostile Indians.

Softly as he stepped, the quick ear of an old Indian woman detected his approach, and she raised her eyes to meet his eager and hungry gaze, as he looked longingly at the supper she was preparing over the fire just outside her little cane hut.

When he saw that he was discovered, he went up to her, holding out his hand, and saying:--

“Good mother, I am very hungry and weary, give me something to eat and let me rest here to-night, or I shall die. Oh, mother! mother!”

He was thinking of his own mother at home; but his words and tones sunk into the heart of the old Indian woman, and tears gathered in her dim eyes as she placed her hand softly on Francisco’s shoulders.

“You call me mother,” she said, in Spanish, sadly, “those who used to call me mother are all dead! My boy would have been like you. My brave boy! my timid girl, gone! all gone!”

She wept bitterly as she gave Francisco the choicest morsels, and a cool, delicious drink, that was a balm to his parched and aching throat.

When Francisco had eaten, he was overcome with fatigue and want of sleep, but when he would have thrown himself down upon a mat in the hut, and fallen asleep immediately, the old mother caught him by the arm, exclaiming:--

“You must not lie down there to sleep, you would never wake again; for when the chief, my husband, returns, he would kill you, for he hates the Spaniards. What can I do with you, my poor boy?”

“I can go no farther, mother, I shall die of fatigue if I try; think of the two days and nights I passed upon the desert, without food, drink or sleep.” And he threw himself in the corner, saying: “he must kill me if he will,” and in a moment was fast asleep.

The old woman bent over and kissed him, weeping.

“He called me mother,” she said, “poor boy, poor boy.”

She covered him over with cool boughs, with the thick green leaves still fresh upon them.

How long he slept he could not tell, but while it was yet dark, a rough voice very near, awoke him.

Opening his eyes and peering through the mass of foliage, he saw a gigantic Indian, surrounded by half a dozen younger men, all eating what appeared to be an early breakfast, and talking over some adventure in which they were about engaging.

From their conversation he learned that he was approaching the borders of the rich Arizona country; and he noticed, when the chief put up his ammunition (he was the only one who carried a gun), that the bullet was of pure gold.

He lay for some time motionless, carefully watching their movements. At one time he came very near being discovered.

One of the young Indians had mislaid his bow and arrow, and went to the pile of brush to look for it; but the old woman, whose mother’s heart had warmed to the perishing young stranger, drove the Indian boy away, with a sharp reproof for his carelessness in disturbing her basket of reeds, which were mingled with the concealing boughs.

At last the missing bow was found, and the company mounted and rode away.

Again silence fell upon the palm-shaded hut.

Still weary, Francisco lay quietly watching the old woman, as she moved about with a lighted taper, silently putting the things to rights; but at last she blew out the light, and lay down to rest upon a mat near the door, and in the darkness, the green oasis of the desert faded into the land of dreams.

The morning sun was shining clear and bright, through the waving branches of the palm-trees, when Francisco again awoke.

There was no one in the hut when he arose and went to the spring, where the night before he had slaked his thirst.

Again he drank from its pure fountain, bathing his face and neck in the sparkling water, till he felt quite refreshed.

Above his head, amid the glossy leaves hung the rich yellow bananas.

He gathered some and ate them as he returned to the hut, with a hopeful, happy heart.

The old mother met him at the door, and greeted him pleasantly.

They sat down together and ate their morning meal. Francisco told her how he had left home to seek his fortune, and of his father and mother, who had once been very rich, and had become poor, and in their old age were suffering for the comforts of life. How he had vowed, if his life was spared, that they should enjoy all that money and love could provide for them. “And now, mother,” he said, “I am seeking gold, and gold I must have, if my life pays the forfeit.”

“Were it not that the chieftain, my husband, would kill you, I could show you where gold is plenty enough,” said the old woman. “Only one day’s journey from here are the great mines, and even on the ground you can pick up quite large nuggets of almost pure gold; but every hour you stay here your life is in danger, and you must live to be happy.

“There are places in the Arizona country where the ground is yellow with gold. The Indians care little for it, but you could never go there and return alive. At every step your way would be beset with a more deadly foe than the hunger and thirst of the desert.

“Boy, you have wakened a love that was dead in my heart. I will save you if possible, and, as nearly as I can will grant your wishes.”

Then the old woman prepared food and water for a journey, and taking two deer-skin bags, she filled them with great nuggets of pure gold, and laid across the back of a strong mule, as much as he could carry, and embracing Francisco, she bade him take the mule and recross the desert with all possible dispatch.

“To-night our men will return, and you must be far away.”

Then she gave him directions about the way. “By to-night, if you keep the trail, you will reach green trees and water. Go home now, be rich and happy; but some times remember the lonely Indian mother far away in Arizona.”

The old woman embraced him again, weeping, and said: “All who call me mother must go from me.”

Francisco kissed her brown cheek, and went out from under the shade of the palm-trees into the arid waste.

Looking back, as long as he could see over the desert, in the distance he saw the old woman watching him. She, too, had gone out from the shadow of the palm-trees, and stood upon the burning sand, shading her tearful eyes with her wrinkled hand from the blinding sunshine.

God pity the childless mother.

Francisco was fortunate in keeping the trail, and at night reached the trees and water the old woman had spoken of, but the desert was still before him--a long and toilsome journey.

For six weary days he traveled through an arid sandy waste, finding water at intervals; and when at last the green hills of San Gabriel rose before him, he wept like a child for joy; but he soon called back his manhood and laughed at his weakness.

With a full happy heart he journeyed on, till Los Angeles, dear Los Angeles, the home of his infancy, lay before him. There was the cottage of his mother, and she herself standing at the door. He had returned after all his hardships, strong, rich, and happy. Again the gray hair of his mother rested on his shoulder, but this time she wept tears of joy, as he whispered in her ear: “Mother, dear! you and father can never want again, I am rich now. I have gold enough to last a lifetime; and, mother, you shall have a beautiful home: and I will ask Juanita, who loves you, to come and be your daughter and my wife.”

THE WISHING-CAP.

Through the branches of a great almond-tree sported the golden sunlight, till it fell in shining flecks upon the broad verandas of a spacious adobe house. Nothing could be pleasanter than this homestead in the southern Gold Land, with the great garden around it, filled with all kinds of tropical flowers and fruits in their season. Here dwelt a little boy and girl, whose father and mother were both dead, so they, poor children, had their sorrows.

After the mother died, the father had married a poor widow, who had two children, about the age of his own little ones.

At first, while the comfort of the new home was a novelty to the woman, she had been kind to the children; but, as the strangeness wore off, she began to feel like the real mistress. In a thousand ways she favored her own children, who were proud and selfish; and in all their childish differences, only the motherless ones were punished.

Then the father died, and the step-mother became like a great shadow between them and the bright sunshine of childhood. She would have sent them away from home, but their own mother had been very rich, and, after the father’s death, the house in which they lived, the vineyard, and the large herd of cattle feeding upon the hills, all belonged to them.

The step-mother was very angry at this, but she was their guardian, so she managed every thing to suit herself, and lived in great ease and luxury.

One day, as the children were playing in the garden, the step-mother’s son threw his ball into a wild-rosebush that was covered with thorns.

“Go and get it for me, Zoie,” said he, sharply, to the little girl.

“I can not,” replied the child, “for the thorns will tear my dress, and the señora will whip me.”

“How dare you call my mother the señora? It is not from respect, but because you are a hateful little beast.” And he struck the child a cruel blow, and made her go for the ball.

Her dress was torn, and her pretty hands bleeding when she recovered it. Just then her own brother came up, and would have fought the unkind boy, but the little Zoie entreated, weeping, “Dear brother, do not strike him. Come with me, while I say, ‘Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us.’”

The heart of the young boy swelled with anger, and his quickened pulse beat fearfully; but, because he loved his sister, he suffered her to lead him away, for well he knew, nothing would grieve her so much as his returning blow for blow.

“Oh! to be a man!” he thought, as the hot tears filled his eyes. “Why don’t the years fly fast? How long must I wait, before I can take care of my little sister like a man?”

Already the manhood was dawning in his heart; and if he could have protected the dear little maiden, he would have dared any thing.

At this moment the garden gate opened, and an old Indian woman came up the walk, crying--“Strawberries! fresh and ripe, red and bright. Strawberries! strawberries!”

All the children ran to meet her, and looked so eagerly at the pretty crimson fruit, that she gave to each of them a handful, but to the little sister, who was so modest and beautiful, she gave a small basket, covered with green leaves, and filled with the delicious berries.

When the other children would have taken the basket for themselves, the old woman prevented them; and, while they went, crying, to their mother, Zoie hid her treasure under the trailing vines of a passion-flower.

“Be quick, little señorita,” said the old Indian. “Your mother once saved the life of my child, and an Indian never forgets. In the basket is a wonderful talisman, which will give you any thing you want, just for the wishing.”

She had hardly time to say this, when the step-mother came out, and bought all the fruit she had left.

The señora was very angry with the orphans, and, after whipping them both for quarreling, sent them supperless to bed, in an old out-house where the Indian servants slept, but she and her children sat down to a luxurious meal, with a large basket of delicious strawberries in the center of the table, plenty of nice white sugar, and three bowls of fresh, rich cream.

For some time the lonely orphans lay talking of their own dear parents, and weeping, as they lay shivering in each other’s arms. The evening was coming on, and, though the days were very warm, there was a chill in the damp night air, and they had only a thin sheet to cover them.

At last the brother said: “Sister, I can not endure it. If they would only whip me--but to see them strike you! I can not endure it! You, whom I promised the dear papa to love and protect. We have nothing but sorrow here. Let us go out into the wide world alone. It will not be so bad--at least we shall be away from the señora, who gives only hard crusts to eat.”

“Dear brother, let us go! The good God, who takes care of the pretty birds, will take care of us. But first bring me my blue shawl, for it was the last thing the dear mamma gave me.”

Very softly the boy rose and went for the shawl, but the old Indian cook, who had lived in the family before he was born, and loved the children dearly, saw him and gave him some tortillas.

“The old wizzen witch, to treat the real señora’s children so!” said the woman, angrily. “She, the señora, to be sure! A cane hut in the chaparral would be good enough for her.”