"If you like Indians maybe you would be pleased to hear some Indian songs," said Ramona.
"We would," replied Nellie. "There was a little baby up at the Springs, and its father used to put it to sleep in the afternoons by swinging it in a hammock. He sang in the queerest way. His song was pretty, too; but whenever he saw that we were listening he would stop."
"Come, then, to Concelio in the kitchen—she will sing for you," said Alejandro.
They followed their young host, Nellie holding fast to Ramona's hand. Concelio was shelling peas.
"You must sing for these friends of ours, Concelio," said Alejandro. "Shall I get your guitar, Ramona? It sounds so much prettier with the guitar."
"Maybe they will not like," said the old woman, "my voice is so cracked."
"Oh, but we will," rejoined Walter. "We love the Indians, and we like their songs." The old woman murmured something in Spanish, still smiling, however.
"What did she say?" whispered Nellie to Ramona.
"She said you were strange white people if you loved the Indians, but that she believed you were speaking the truth and would sing for you."
Alejandro returned with the guitar. Concelio seated herself on the doorstep with the group around her.