Now for the remarkable woman.  Sturdy and prominent old character, obviously.  Forty-seven years old, or thereabouts; lots of curling iron-gray hair twisted about her round forehead; a few wrinkles, and not all of the newest.  Round face, round and earnest eyes, short, self-confident nose, chin sticking out in search of its own way, mouth trembling with unuttered ideas.  Good figure—­what Lord Dundreary would call “dem robust,” but not so sumptuous as to be merely ornamental; tolerably convenient figure to get about in.  Walks up and down, man-fashion, with her hands behind her back—­also man-fashion.  Such is Mrs. Maria Stanley, the sister of Clara Van Diemen’s father, and best known to Clara as Aunt Maria.

“And so this is Santa Fe?” said Aunt Maria, rolling her spectacles over the little wilted city.  “Founded in 1581; two hundred and seventy years old.  Well, if this is all that man can do in that time, he had better leave colonization to woman.”

Clara smiled with an innocent air of half wonder and half amusement, such as you may see on the face of a child when it is shown some new and rather awe-striking marvel of the universe, whether a jack-in-a-box or a comet.  She had only known Aunt Maria for the last four years, and she had not yet got used to her rough-and-ready mannish ways, nor learned to see any sense in her philosophizings.  Looking upon her as a comical character, and supposing that she talked mainly for the fun of the thing, she was disposed to laugh at her doings and sayings, though mostly meant in solemn earnest.

“But about your affairs, my child,” continued Aunt Maria, suddenly gripping a fresh subject after her quick and startling fashion.  “I don’t understand them.  How is it possible?  Here is a great fortune gone; gone in a moment; gone incomprehensibly.  What does it mean?  Some rascality here.  Some man at the bottom of this.”

“I presume my relative, Garcia, must be right,” commenced Clara.

“No, he isn’t,” interrupted Aunt Maria.  “He is wrong.  Of course he’s wrong.  I never knew a man yet but what he was wrong.”

“You make me laugh in spite of my troubles,” said Clara, laughing, however, only through her eyes, which had great faculties for sparkling out meanings.  “But see here,” she added, turning grave again, and putting up her hand to ask attention.  “Mr. Garcia tells a straight story, and gives reasons enough.  There was the war,” and here she began to count on her fingers, “That destroyed a great deal.  I know when my father could scarcely send on money to pay my bills in New York.  And then there was the signature for Senor Pedraez.  And then there were the Apaches who burnt the hacienda and drove off the cattle.  And then he—­”

Her voice faltered and she stopped; she could not say, “He died.”

“My poor, dear child!” sighed Aunt Maria, walking up to the girl and caressing her with a tenderness which was all womanly.