For the first time in their lives the twins regarded their mother’s resting place with feelings of awe, inspired by the solemn manner of these strangers. She had died when they were babies, but their father had kept alive in their hearts a consciousness of her existence as real as it was joyous.
Their happy mother, young, beloved, and beautiful; who had sung and laughed her way through life, and who had trustfully gone out of it to another which was even fuller of sunshine. Why should anybody grow stern and sad who looked down upon her grave?
They could not fathom the mystery, and soberly led the way to the old adobe Mission, which had been a House of Refuge for so many strangers.
“I think, Carlota, maybe these are the ‘enemy’ sort of folks Miguel so often talks about, and seems to expect will come, sometime to Refugio,” impressively whispered Carlos.
“‘Enemies’ are wicked people, isn’t they?”
“Ye-es. I be-lieve so;” yet the boy’s tone was doubtful. If these were “enemies” they appeared to be more queer than wicked.
“Hmm. Then that is why.”
“Why what, girlie?”
“Why they wear such funny hats on their heads and carry such strange things in their hands. Don’t you remember that in all the stories of bad ones there’s always something to know them by? Marks on their foreheads, or ugly clothes or faces; and now those have—I wonder what they call these horrid greeny-white open-and-shutters that scared Benoni so! You see, brother, he knew they were ‘enemies’ at once. Horses do know lots about such things, Marta says.”
“They are ‘sunumberellas.’ I asked the gentleman,” answered Carlos, proud of this acquisition to his “pure English.”