"It was my purpose, in coming here, to establish a Sunday-school," the missionary continued, true to her avocation. "I saw this boy and marked him," pointing to Francisco. "He looked intelligent, as though the others might follow his lead. But unfortunately he got into an altercation with my son, and I have taken no further steps with him."
Walter looked down, embarrassed upon hearing himself addressed personally. He hoped she was not going to ask him to be a leader. He would in that case tell her something, he now thought.
"It is difficult, very difficult, to accomplish anything. The mothers and fathers are indifferent, if not rude—the children the same."
Neither of the boys made a reply.
"The teacher tells me she has been here twelve years," went on the missionary, after waiting in vain for a remark. Her voice now began to lose its sweet accents and to savor of asperity.
"Twelve years—and she has not been able to make any impression—in a Christian way. She thinks you are all very good, but you cling to your old beliefs."
"And why not, please?" asked Francisco. "Why should we not keep to our own faith? Why do they give us teachers who are not of our religion? How many go there to that school?" pointing to the building, not far away. "Maybe twenty out of seventy-five children. To the Mission go the others, where they belong——"
"I think it is very cruel in the priests to insist on sending those children nearly a hundred miles from their parents to the Mission," said William's mother, growing warmer with every word.
"And the Indians think it is right—right to send them to the Mission, where they will learn their religion," answered Francisco with equal warmth. "The teacher is very good and kind, and the people are grateful to her for all she does, but if she should stay here twelve years longer, they will never give up what the Fathers have taught them."