"No; it isn't that," said Walter, when everybody had finished laughing. "But maybe they won't like our looking at them."
"They are probably used to it by this time," said Mr. Page. "People have been watching them for many years."
Up and down the hills they clattered briskly once more with the wagon, Rosinante doing her best to make a record for speed, with Nellie behind her. When they reached the top of the hill above the first spring, they left the wagon and scrambled down the steep, rocky pathway. At some little distance from the others, a separate pool for washing had been roofed over very picturesquely. It reminded one of old pictures of Hygeian temples. The sides were open, allowing the looker-on to see the washerwomen, squatting on their heels, soaping the clothes or leaning over the steaming water. Young and old, to the number of perhaps a dozen, they worked and chattered, apparently altogether oblivious of those who regarded them.
Flat granite slabs served them for washboards. Vigorously, indeed, did they ply their arms. Some were rinsing, a few wringing out, and others spreading the garments, white as snow, either on the ground or on the straggling bushes in the vicinity.
"I could watch them forever," said Nellie, when Walter, having made a little journey around the place with Francisco, told her he thought they should be going campward. "I'm going to ask mamma to let me come down here to-morrow and wash some napkins."
"Would they allow her to wash there?" asked Walter.
"Yes, if she would like; anyone can," said Francisco. "But always, I think, the white people come about from ten to twelve in the morning."
"Oh, I wouldn't like that," said Nellie. "I want to go with the Indians and wash."
"Maybe you can do that, too," said Francisco. "Some time, when my cousin Leonidas is coming, I will ask that you may go along."