“Rich people mus’ work, too,” continued the Mexican girl dreamily, as she embraced her drawn-up legs and rested her chin upon her knees. “Was old Señor Cristoval more happy than we, with all the money he loved? No! Meest Weldon works; Meest Hahn works; even Meest Bul-Run works—sometime. If one does not work, one is not happy, Miguel; an’ if one mus’ work, money makes not any difference. So, when Meeldred find she is still poor, an’ has no money an’ no laces, like she hope for, she will work jus’ the same as ever, an’ be happy.”
“I, too, work,” remarked the old man. “I have always work.”
“If you had much money, Miguel, you would still work.”
“Yes.”
“You would not care for money; not you. It would not do you any good. It would not change your life.”
“No.”
Again they sat in silence, as if reflecting on this primitive philosophy. Finally Inez said:
“You remember Leighton, Miguel?”
“Yes. He was good man. He make much money for Señor Cristoval an’ for heemself. Sometime I see them count gold—ten pieces to Señor Cristoval, ten pieces to Leighton—to divide even. Then Leighton will throw me a gold-piece an’ say: ‘That for you, Miguel, because you are faithful an’ true.’”
“An’ Señor Cristoval, did he throw the gold-piece to you, also?”