No sooner was she and the young girl out of sight than the woman rose stealthily, and gathering up her coarse brown cloak around her, glided swiftly through the garden and into the room where the cradle stood, still moving from the parting motion of Macata’s hand. Glancing hastily around, she snatched up the still sleeping child, and wrapping it in the folds of her cloak, ran out of the garden, away from the road, on through the orange-grove, and before Macata and the girl returned, was far away out of sight.
Still on she went, through the vineyard, and over the hill beyond; nor did she pause for a moment after she entered the thick wood, until miles away in the dusk of the evening, deep down in a cañon she came to a rude cottage overhung with trees and rocks.
All day long the delicate child had been out in the burning sunshine, tasting nothing but a tortilla moistened in water.
When they entered the cottage she had cried herself to sleep, and her little head rested wearily upon the bosom of the woman who had stolen her from her mother and her happy home.
On the floor sat a little girl shelling beans. She was a poor, misshapen child of misfortune, with a sad mark of suffering upon her face, which, when the woman entered, deepened.
“Take this child, Catrina. Put it away anywhere—anywhere out of sight. It is hateful to me.” Then throwing off the brown cloak, and rubbing her hands, she drew near the fire, adding: “Be in a hurry, girl. Give me my supper, for I am tired and hungry.”
The young girl had taken the little one and laid it upon the bed, and, though there was an expression of surprise upon her face, she placed the supper upon the table without speaking. Then, placing chairs, she and the woman sat down together. Still not a word was spoken. By and by, after they had eaten, and the dishes were washed, the hearth swept, and more fagots heaped upon the fire, the girl pointed to the sleeping child.
“Let her be,” said the woman, crossly. “I can not support you in idleness. Go shell your beans.”
The girl placed a cup of milk at the fire, sat down again to her task, and, for a long time, nothing was heard but the crackling pods. At length the woman spoke.
“It is little use in talking to you, Catrina: but I must speak sometimes, and you are the only being I have, about me, and you can not tell what I say. You can not remember, Catrina! Many years ago I was beautiful; I was young. Now I am old, not with years! See this hair once so glossy—look at it.”