Pilar went out onto the balcony of her house. Girl-draped balconies are as natural in Spain as donkey-dotted roads and child-filled doorways.
Pilar gazed down on the street. The morning was golden. Church bells clanged, and a knife grinder was piping on an Arab reed. A broom-maker squatted on the pavement across the way.
Pilar's eyes were full of tears as she took up the castanets and went with them into her grandfather's room.
"I am going out, Grandfather," she said.
But she mentioned nothing about selling the castanets. She could not trust herself to speak. However, her grandfather saw them in her hands, and his old eyes brightened.
GIRL-DRAPED BALCONIES
"Some day I shall tell you—stories—about—those—" he breathed. "Your mother—loved—them—"
"Do not talk now, Grandfather. It will tire you," said Pilar.
She wanted to be off, to have it all over with as quickly as possible. She knew that if her grandfather told her a story about the castanets, it would be even harder to part with them. Poor Pilar! If she had listened to just one of those legends, she would not have dared to sell the wooden clappers.