“Did’st thou hear that, yes? Why do they say that? What is it?”
“ADIOS, ADIOS!”
“Leave hand! May I not hearken the last word of the little one but I must be sent to mind an old stew-pot of podrida?”
“Podrida—Pstit! Tell me. There’s something amiss with my children, is it not? ‘Adios’—‘farewell’—It has been often in that voice of silver, but always with the sound of ‘I return,’ so sweet to hear. Always with the laughter breaking through, but this time—the heart-break!”
Feeling her own superstitious heart sing before that strange expression on Marta’s paling face, Anita indignantly retorted:
“You are a fanciful old woman. You are dotard. What? Have you an ague, you? Speak. Have you never seen the small ones ride away upon Benoni that you should stare at ghosts this hour?”
“Ghosts? Yes. I dreamed of their mother last night. She was not weeping and wringing her white hands, no? Anita Pichardo, I tell thee that evil has come to Refugio this day, and it is the strangers who have brought it.”
She paused and pointed toward Mr. Rupert, hastily coming down the cloistered walk.
“Well then, Mother Marta, it is I, Anita, who thanks this unknown evil for coming by so handsome a carrier, yes. In truth, if it is this fine Señor I am to serve at supper I will even bother to stir the stew once more. Then I will put on my Sunday gown, why not? Many strangers have come to Refugio, but none so comely as yon.”