Before she could think of a single Spanish word of sympathy, the poor mother began wailing, “A Dios! My son—my Pepito! He is dead!”
Over and over she intoned this lament, along with the groaning of the grandmother and the little girls.
“How could that boy have died so suddenly?” Jo Ann thought. “He looked frail and undernourished, but——”
Her train of thought was broken by hearing Florence begin questioning the mother. She listened intently to see if she could discover what they were saying. She could catch only a few words now and then, but she understood the mother to say that the boy had died that morning. He and the other boy had gone higher up on the mountain the night before to help the father to gather the wood and start the fire for making the charcoal. The boy had taken sick suddenly—the father had brought him down and he had died soon afterwards.
Before the mother had finished speaking, Jo Ann saw Florence kneel down beside the still figure of the boy and feel first his pulse then touch his forehead and cheek.
“How strange!” Jo Ann thought. “He’s dead—why is she doing that?”
The next moment Florence exclaimed, “Jo, find me a piece of glass this instant! Hurry!”
“Why on earth does she want a piece of glass?” Jo Ann thought, but without stopping to question she began looking about the scantily furnished hut.
“There’s no sign of any kind of glass here. Won’t this do instead?” she asked a moment later as she handed her a small glazed pottery mug.
“It’ll have to do. Break it—I want only a small piece.”