As for Señor John, he was soon wearing a suit from off the shelves at the store and was reviving after a smoking draught of the brew which Paloma’s mother brought. Then a seat behind the stove was fixed up for him and here he was showered with attention, no less by the young storekeeper--haggard as himself--than by a cluster of inquisitive, but kindly, Indians. To one side loitered Paloma, quietly observant. But when Señor John, despite his little audience, reached up to kiss the girl who had braved the water and the sands to find him, Paloma approached the two and drew from her finger the ring with the green stone. “I return what I borrowed,” she said. Her face was a sullen black and ivory, and when she walked away it was with an air somewhat forlorn--like that of a girl who has neither ring nor lover. But when she reached the door a tinge of colour rushed into cheek and lip. Outside, two dark eyes were fixed upon her from under a wide hat, for Anastacio was hovering near, wrapped in his serape--hovering as if he wished to look on, yet was anxious to escape notice. All at once, Paloma’s pretty head came high again and she tripped proudly out. It was at this juncture that shouting was heard from the direction of the river. Instantly the crowd about Señor John dwindled and started in loose order down the winding pueblo street. Paloma’s mother went too, joining Paloma. And the storekeeper followed, bareheaded. Then--the shouting had grown--Señor John got up and trailed after the others, leaning on a willing shoulder. The sun was up now and shining warmly. As they came out of the village upon the path which led past the chapel, it glistened on the wet grey roofs of the town and on the wide, yellow river. All of Los Morales was in front of them, crying out excitedly, running, cheering wildly. And now, as the noisy throng parted, here came a procession, moving up the gentle slope that led from the Rio Grande to the chapel of San Felipe. Father José led it, his thin face uplifted and transformed, his dark eyes wide, serene and luminous, his slender hands clasping the jet cross on his breast. Behind him trooped the Pueblos, reaching out brown hands to touch something that was in their midst. Their black eyes sparkled, their white teeth showed with smiling. At the center of the throng walked six bright-blanketed Indians abreast, a long, stout pole in their hands. And swung on the pole through its iron loop, with its clapper wagging as the six walked, and sounding a mellow, clear-throated, joyous greeting to all the town, came the lost silver bell of Los Morales. * * * * *