His house Mrs. Juan kept neat as wax. They ate from flowered china, with knife and fork, though her bread was baked, delicious and crusty, in the round outdoor ovens her grandmothers used as far back as B. C. or so. She had not shared Juan’s experience with the white man’s world, except as it motored to the doors of her husband’s store to purchase ginger ale or wrought-silver hatbands. But she had her delight, as did Juan, in showing the outside world she could put on or leave off their trappings at whim. She was a good wife, and how she loved Juan! She hung on his every word, and ministered to his taste in cookery, and missed him when he went away to his farms--just like a white woman. [Illustration: HER BREAD WAS BAKED, DELICIOUS AND CRUSTY, IN THE ROUND OUTDOOR OVENS HER GRANDMOTHERS USED AS FAR BACK AS B. C. OR SO.] Juan’s ranch is near the new church, which has stood above the foundations of the older church only a century and a half or less. It befits his rank as one of the leading citizens of the village that his property should have a prominent location on the bare and sand-swept little plaza. He loves his home and the life he has returned to. “I have tried them both--you see I know English? I can talk books with you, and slang with the drummers that come to the trading-store? I have ridden in your trains and your motor-cars, and eaten at white men’s tables, and bathed in his white bathtubs. I have tried it all. I have read your religious books, and know about your good man, Jesus. Now I have come back to the ways of my people. Well! You know me well enough to know I have my reasons. What is there in your ways for me? I have tried them all, and now I come back to Great Isleta, where are none of those things you white men must have--and life is full as before. I have what is inside me--the same in Isleta as anywhere else.” He fastened his piercing eyes on us, a trick he has when he is much in earnest. Those eyes see a little more than some people’s eyes. To him the aura that is hidden to most of us is a commonplace. He allows himself to be guided by psychic manifestations to an extent a white man might not understand. I heard him say of two men, strangers, who came to his ranch: “When they came in, I saw a light about the head of one. All was white and shining, and I knew I could trust him. But the other had no light. It was black around him. The first man can be my friend--but the other, never! I do not trust him.” Moonshine? But the odd thing is that Juan’s judgment, so curiously formed, became fully justified by later events. The second man is not yet in jail, but there are people who know enough about him to put him there, if they cared to take the trouble. This trick of seeing the color of a man’s soul is not unique with Juan. Many Pueblo Indians share it, as a matter of course, but it is a thing which they take for granted among themselves, and seldom mention.