He was ushered into a well-furnished sitting room, whose glaring freshness was subdued and repressed by black-framed engravings of scriptural subjects.  As Mr. Brooks glanced at them and recalled the schoolrooms of the old missions, with their monastic shadows which half hid the gaudy, tinseled saints and flaming or ensanguined hearts upon the walls, he feared that the little waif of Mother Church had not gained any cheerfulness in the exchange.

As she entered the room with Mrs. Hoover, her large dark eyes—­the most notable feature in her small face—­seemed to sustain the schoolmaster’s fanciful fear in their half-frightened wonder.  She was clinging closely to Mrs. Hoover’s side, as if recognizing the good woman’s maternal kindness even while doubtful of her purpose; but on the schoolmaster addressing her in Spanish, a singular change took place in their relative positions.  A quick look of intelligence came into her melancholy eyes, and with it a slight consciousness of superiority to her protectors that was embarrassing to him.  For the rest he observed merely that she was small and slightly built, although her figure was hidden in a long “check apron” or calico pinafore with sleeves—­a local garment—­which was utterly incongruous with her originality.  Her skin was olive, inclining to yellow, or rather to that exquisite shade of buff to be seen in the new bark of the madrono.  Her face was oval, and her mouth small and childlike, with little to suggest the aboriginal type in her other features.

The master’s questions elicited from the child the fact that she could read and write, that she knew her “Hail Mary” and creed (happily the Protestant Mrs. Hoover was unable to follow this questioning), but he also elicited the more disturbing fact that her replies and confidences suggested a certain familiarity and equality of condition which he could only set down to his own youthfulness of appearance.  He was apprehensive that she might even make some remark regarding Mrs. Hoover, and was not sorry that the latter did not understand Spanish.  But before he left he managed to speak with Mrs. Hoover alone and suggested a change in the costume of the pupil when she came to school.  “The better she is dressed,” suggested the wily young diplomat, “the less likely is she to awaken any suspicion of her race.”

“Now that’s jest what’s botherin’ me, Mr. Brooks,” returned Mrs. Hoover, with a troubled face, “for you see she is a growin’ girl,” and she concluded, with some embarrassment, “I can’t quite make up my mind how to dress her.”

“How old is she?” asked the master abruptly.

“Goin’ on twelve, but,”—­and Mrs. Hoover again hesitated.