Over her coarse smock and gown she wore a black cotton reboso.
In her arms she held an infant, muffled in a white lace mantilla.
Dona Eustaquia came in and bent over the baby, her strong face alight
with joy.
"Didst thou ever nurse so beautiful a baby?" she demanded.
The old woman grunted; she had heard that question before.
"See how pink and smooth it is--not red and wrinkled like other babies!
How becoming is that mantilla! No, she shall not be wrapped in blankets,
cap, and shawls."
"She catch cold, most likely," grunted the nurse.
"In this weather? No; it is soft as midsummer. I cannot get cool. Ay,
she looks like a rosebud lying in a fog-bank!" She touched the baby's
cheek with her finger, then sat on the bed, beside her daughter.
"And how dost thou feel, my little one? Thou wert a baby thyself but
yesterday, and thou art not much more to-day."
"I feel perfectly well, my mother, and--ay, Dios, so happy! Where is
Edourdo?"
"Of course! Always the husband! They are all alike! Hast thou not thy
mother and thy baby?"
"I adore you both, mamacita, but I want Edourdo.
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