Ana arose.
"I will take the scrap-basket with me," she said.
"Not until you have brought the paper, Ana. I shall tear up some other pieces."
When Ana had closed the door Raquel pounced upon the waste-basket. She took the folded paper from the top of the few scraps lying there. This she opened, pulling it apart with difficulty, for the pegs had punched the layers together, as if they had been sewn with a needle. She spread the paper upon her knee, but first ran to the door and called, "Ana, bring a piece of the cotton wool, also, I beg of you."
"That will keep her longer," said Raquel, smiling. She spoke aloud as lonely creatures often do. "She must hunt for that, I know." She heard Ana pulling out bureau drawers, and sat down again to read her letter.
"Dearest Señorita," it ran. "I hear that you are unhappy. What can I do? I hear that you are going away. Do not go, for the love of God, without letting me know.
Your faithful servant, G."
"I have let you know, Gil," she said. "I am not going away, but I am unhappy. I am a prisoner. I wonder if you will save me?" Ana's heavy tread was heard along the corridor. Raquel hastily thrust the note within the bosom of her dress. When the cotton had been adjusted and the slipper replaced, Ana took up the scrap-basket.
"Dear Ana, stay a little while. I am so lonely. Don't you think he would let me sit on the veranda?"
"He would let you go anywhere if you would promise not to speak to the Señor Silencio," said Ana.
"I will never promise that, Ana," said Raquel, with a compression of the lips.