"What is it, Anita?" she asked after a brief upward glance. "Is there a spirit of unrest with you also? Some say there is sleep and forgetfulness in these little cups of gold. I have gathered some and lain here a long time, but it is not true, Anita. There is no forgetting."
“There is No Forgetting”
Ana slipped from the saddle and came closer. Never before had so much of confession been heard from Raquel Arteaga.
"What, then, do you try to forget, my darling?" she asked, caressingly. "Your love and happiness?"
"Love is not happiness," said Raquel, and laid her cheek against the sheaf of poppies. "Why do people say so? Do they wish to lie, or do they not know? The heart does not laugh with love; it aches. The light and the glory of it comes, and after that comes the earthquake; and the life is shaken out of us, and all we can do is to make ourselves a sacrifice."
"Holy saints! I never knew love was all that!" acknowledged Ana. "It means also to dance, to listen to your lover's songs in the night under your window, and to go to sleep satisfied that he is not with some other girl. It means stolen looks like kisses. I never am sure but that they are sweeter than the kisses themselves, though they do not make one mad."
Raquel looked at her, and smiled strangely, and rose to her feet.
"Ai! you are right, Anita; it is without doubt more wise to love like that. All the girls in the willows think so." As she saw Ana's face flush, she turned in quick contrition. "Ah, forgive me! You do not love as they do, I am sure—those fat brown animals; but, Anita darling, I am a tired soul, and rest is somewhere far beyond the ranges, and—ah, well,—forgive me!"
Ana smiled and shrugged her shoulders.