"Right you are, Pepita. Felix Ubaldo is a better rider than Pedro. Pedro's shoulders are not always straight in the saddle," said Florida Pardo.
"No such thing," defended Pepita. "When the broncho bucks, Felix goes up and down like the jumping-jacks the little boys get for Christmas."
"Come, come, children, work, work. Talk less," from the matrona.
Pepita stamped her foot. "Work, work all the time. Why was I not born a señorita, with people to serve me, instead of having to work every day like an ox drawing a carreta full of stones?"
"Saints in heaven!" from Marta. "A crow isn't born a songster, because crows have a use as well as singing birds. Pepita, thou art a blackamoor; still, thou may become a peona of the Señorita Mendoza. Modesta, her serving maid, marries soon Tomaso, peon captain."
"O, Marta, is the Señorita Carmelita thinking of making me one of her peonas? How I would like that! Will you not ask the padre to recommend me to the Señor Mendoza for his household?" The girl got up and put her arm wheedlingly about the woman.
"I'll tell thee, Pepita, Modesta's my niece, and I know of what I speak when I give you word of happenings at the great hacienda house."
The matrona folded her arms. The clicking of the looms was stilled. Indian maid and wife were as ready to hear the gossip as was Marta to tell it.
"Last Saint John's day the quality of Santa Clara valley attended high mass here. As you remember, Lady Carmelita played the organ. Padre Osuna alone excels her. The Indian choir sang, and—Pepita, thou sang well enough. I will say, Señorita Mendoza was much taken with thy solo part. But do not overpride thyself. Thy voice, like thy good looks, is but a gift to thee, not of thine own making."
"Tell us the story," the girl urged.