"I should be proud to use my hands for the same work, instead of this endless embroidery," she observed; "but Doña Raquel will not hear of it."
"To mould the candles for the altar, each woman of each house should make her own," returned Raquel, quietly. "You have not that custom in your land—no?"
"Certainly not. We are not taught that extra pounds of beef tallow will help to save our souls if burned in silver holders."
"No? What, then, does it take to save souls in your country?"
"Those who come here leave their souls at home for safe-keeping," declared Ana, thrusting her needle viciously into the embroideries of lawn; "they only bring their long purses to be filled."
For one moment the snapping black eyes of Ana met the childish blue ones of Angela and carried in their glance an accusation and understanding. Angela's pretty teeth closed with a vicious click under her red lips, then she shrugged her dimpled shoulders, and laughed.
"Oh, you see of course only the merchants here," she conceded, "the people who buy hides, and tallow, and herds of horses."
Then she turned again to Raquel, who had seen some of the little byplay.
"And those candles of purest white, packed in scented cotton, for what especial purpose are they reserved?"
"They are the candles for the dead."