head, but wrapped closely her waist and arms, and then dropped long ends down the front of her dress.  Her coal-black hair, heavy and shining, was combed smoothly back from her forehead and fastened in a chongo behind.  Her brown face was handsomer than that of most Indian maidens, being longer in proportion to its width than is the pueblo type, the cheek bones less prominent, the forehead broader, and the lips fuller and more delicately chiselled.  It is possible that, far back in Barbara’s ancestry, perhaps even as far back as the times of the Conquistadores, there had been some admixture of the white man’s race which, after generations of quiescence, in her had at last made its influence felt again.

As Mrs. Coolidge led the girl into her new home she looked down at her with approving eye and inwardly exclaimed, the conqueror’s joy already filling her heart, “She ’ll be a success!  A tremendous success!  The Colonel’s wife can do what she pleases now!”

For in the days of which this chronicle tells, Santa Fe was still a military post, and the wife of the commanding officer had been all winter a thorn in the flesh of Mrs. Coolidge.  The Colonel had been recently transferred from an Eastern post; and his wife, who had never been West before, had supposed that of course she would at once become the social leader of Santa Fe.  Her disappointment was bitter when she found that place already firmly held and learned that she, the wife of a colonel in the army, and just from the East, would have to yield first place to the wife of a mere civilian who had lived in the West for a dozen years.  She rebelled and tried to start a clique of her own, and all winter she had made trouble among the Select by getting up affairs which clashed with Colonel Kate’s plans, and by introducing innovations of which Colonel Kate did not approve.  Mrs. Coolidge had no fears for her social supremacy,—­she had reigned too long for the thought of downfall to be possible,—­but she was tired of being crossed and annoyed, and she purposed with one audacious blow to humble the Colonel’s wife and put an end to her pretensions.

The plan came to her suddenly while she talked with old Ambrosio’s daughter in the street at Acoma.  She saw that Barbara was discontented and unhappy, and that she longed to return to even so much of the life of the whites as she had found in the Indian schools.  Colonel Kate pitied her and determined to help her.  She was saying to herself that the girl was certainly intelligent and attractive, when she suddenly realized that this Indian maid was gifted with that indefinable but most potent of feminine attractions—­personal charm.  And then, like an inspiration, the idea took possession of her mind.  She turned impulsively to Barbara: 

“Will you go home with me and be my guest for all this spring and summer?”

The joy that beamed in the girl’s face told how gladly she would go.  But it faded quickly and she shook her head sadly, as she answered: