"Aha, señorita, 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 Doña 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. La
Tulita was approaching.