“Good for the old lady! I’ll meet her on the train. We’ll journey together to Albuquerque.”
So there came a goodly company winding down from the hills into the valley of Refugio. Never, since the days of the old Padres, had such a cavalcade appeared there, seeking shelter in the blessed House of Refuge.
Old Guadalupo, still basking in the sun before the kitchen door, blinked and called to Marta:
“Put on the pot, old woman! Bring your guitar and sing your shrillest. They are coming! By the ears of my spirit I hear them.”
Too glad to hobble, as she used to do, Marta flew to the threshold. Age seemed to have left and joy transformed her.
“Ah, soul of my life, I have, I have! Already, there is seethed the flesh of the kid, and there are baked the cakes and sweeties that my children love. Loaves? Why, heart’s dearest, you have never seen such loaves! But, Anita? An-i-ta!”
“Well, then, madre mia, what is it?”
“Where is that boy, Miguel?”
Coquettish for the first time since these many, many days, the maid shrugged her pretty shoulders and settled a rose in her dark hair, as she answered:
“Where? How should I know?”