So it seemed. There was an old woman—very old, very thin and very brown; a younger one, half a dozen youngsters, several dogs and finally the burro. The family were clad in every sort of decrepit garment. Polly thought she had rarely seen so pitiful an assemblage; and yet they did not look particularly unhappy, except the younger woman, who hung back and seemed to have been crying. They had seen the wagon and had come out to find out what was going on. The older woman came directly to the wagon, while the younger one stood a little way off, a baby in her arms, and the other children hanging around her. She was rather a pretty woman, or would have been with half a chance. It is difficult to be pretty when your hair hangs in straggling locks, your too plump figure festoons itself around you in bags, and your clothes look as though you had never had them off since you first became acquainted with them. Poor things, they lead an awful life.
“I’ll let you speak to her, Clara,” Hard said, with a smile. “I think your Spanish is in better working order than mine. Ask after the daughter’s husband; he’s in the army and it may open the way for a little information.”
Mrs. Conrad spoke in rapid and soft-sounding Spanish to the old woman who stood listening, her wrinkled face set in the monotony of hopelessness.
“How beautifully she speaks Spanish!” thought Polly, enviously. “I don’t understand a word of it, but even I can tell the difference between hers and the kind that both the men speak.”
“Good-morning, my friend.” Clara’s voice was cheerful and pleasant. “How is the family?”
“Badly, señora, very badly. My son Manuel joined the army last night and with him his wife and two little ones. Now we have no man in the house—we shall starve.”
“But your daughter’s husband?”
“Francisco was killed last week in a fight. The soldiers brought the news. Carlotta has four little ones now and no man.”
“That is very bad. I am sorry. What soldiers do you mean?”
“Last night. The soldiers who came from the north.”