“Ricardo is gone!”
The other stared.
“Gone!” she repeated in a tone of disgust; “gone! Do you say that you are deserted? Nineteen, only, and deserted. Pst! You are a fool! I kept your father beside me until I was more than twenty-five!”
“Oh, mamma!” It was a plaintive, heart-broken cry.
“But there is no use to snivel over it. What will you do? Do not make a fuss outside here, for all the men to see. Be up, and act gay. Now, there is Felipe, the younger one. He gets four reales a day in the cacao court. He is worth something, I can tell you. And there is Juan. As you know, Antonia Toro——”
Now, Manuelita looked up, and her whole body trembled with fury.
“Antonia!” she repeated hoarsely. “He has gone with her!”
“So?” The old woman looked incredulous. Then she hitched a shoulder. “Ah, well, no matter. You have chickens and pigs, and you are but nineteen. You have only one baby, too, and he is not much trouble. Soon he will be old enough to look out for himself. Why”—in a burst of generosity—“I will take him off your hands myself for a while. Get up.”
In her eagerness, she put out a claw of a hand to pull at her daughter’s sleeve.
“Ah! mamma! mamma!” Manuelita’s voice was deeper now, almost a groan. “You forget, mamma,—Felipe is not Ricardo.”