“Why, two of my scholars, the Bromly girls, are over fourteen,” said the master, “and you know how they are dressed;” but here he hesitated in his turn.  It had just occurred to him that the little waif was from the extreme South, and the precocious maturity of the mixed races there was well known.  He even remembered, to his alarm, to have seen brides of twelve and mothers of fourteen among the native villagers.  This might also account for the suggestion of equality in her manner, and even for a slight coquettishness which he thought he had noticed in her when he had addressed her playfully as a muchacha.  “I should dress her in something Spanish,” he said hurriedly, “something white, you know, with plenty of flounces and a little black lace, or a black silk skirt and a lace scarf, you know.  She’ll be all right if you don’t make her look like a servant or a dependent,” he added, with a show of confidence he was far from feeling.  “But you haven’t told me her name,” he concluded.

“As we’re reckonin’ to adopt her,” said Mrs. Hoover gravely, “you’ll give her ours.”

“But I can’t call her ‘Miss Hoover,’” suggested the master; “what’s her first name?”

“We was thinkin’ o’ ‘Serafina Ann,’” said Mrs. Hoover with more gravity.

“But what is her name?” persisted the master.

“Well,” returned Mrs. Hoover, with a troubled look, “me and Hiram consider it’s a heathenish sort of name for a young gal, but you’ll find it in my brother’s letter.”  She took a letter from under the lid of a large Bible on the table and pointed to a passage in it.

“The child was christened ‘Concepcion,’” read the master.  “Why, that’s one of the Marys!”

“The which?” asked Mrs. Hoover severely.

“One of the titles of the Virgin Mary; ‘Maria de la Concepcion,’” said Mr. Brooks glibly.

“It don’t sound much like anythin’ so Christian and decent as ‘Maria’ or ‘Mary,’” returned Mrs. Hoover suspiciously.

“But the abbreviation, ‘Concha,’ is very pretty.  In fact it’s just the thing, it’s so very Spanish,” returned the master decisively.  “And you know that the squaw who hangs about the mining camp is called ‘Reservation Ann,’ and old Mrs. Parkins’s negro cook is called ’Aunt Serafina,’ so ‘Serafina Ann’ is too suggestive.  ‘Concha Hoover’ ’s the name.”

“P’r’aps you’re right,” said Mrs. Hoover meditatively.

“And dress her so she’ll look like her name and you’ll be all right,” said the master gayly as he took his departure.

Nevertheless, it was with some anxiety the next morning he heard the sound of hoofs on the rocky bridle path leading to the schoolhouse.  He had already informed his little flock of the probable addition to their numbers and their breathless curiosity now accented the appearance of Mr. Hoover riding past the window, followed by a little figure on horseback, half hidden in the graceful folds of a serape.  The next moment they dismounted at the porch, the serape was cast aside, and the new scholar entered.