"It is well that
she stay at home and does not dance away her beauty before he come. She
is like a lily."
"But lilies turn brown, old Faquita, when the wind blow on them too
long. Dost thou think he will return?"
"Surely," said Faquita, stoutly. "Could any one forget that angel?"
"Ay, these men, these men!" said Francesca, with a sigh.
"Oh, thou old raven!" cried Mariquita. "But truly--truly--she has had no
letter for three months."
"Aha, senorita, thou didst not tell us that just now."
"Nor did I intend to. The words just fell from my teeth."
"He is ill," cried Faquita, angrily. "Ay, my probrecita! Sometimes I
think Ysabel is more happy under the rocks."
"How dost thou know he is ill? Will he die?" The wash-tub mail had made
too few mistakes in its history to admit of doubt being cast upon the
assertion of one of its officials.
"I hear Captain Brotherton read from a letter to Dona Eustaquia. Ay,
they are happy!"
"When?"
"Two hours ago."
"Then we know before the town--like always."
"Surely. Do we not know all things first? Hist!"
The women dropped their heads and fumbled at the linen in the water.
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