"Agueda," she said, "repeat these words after me."
"Yes, mother."
"Say, 'All happiness be upon this house.'"
"No, no! mother, I will not. This casa has made you cry. I will not say it."
"Agueda!" Nada's tone was almost stern. "Do as I tell you, child, repeat my words—'All happiness come to this house.'"
But Agueda had pressed her lips tightly together and shaken her head. She had closed the grey eyes so that the curled lashes swept her round brown cheek. Nada had lifted the child in her arms and carried her through the corridors and out to the side veranda. She had set her in the cart and got in beside her.
"Where to, Señora?" Juan Filipe had asked gently.
"To San Isidro," Nada had answered from stiff lips.
"Aaaaaiiieee!" Juan Filipe had shouted, at the same time flourishing the long lash of his whip round the animals' heads. They, knowing that they must soon move, had tossed their noses stubbornly. Another warning, the wheels had creaked, turned round, and they had passed down the hill. Agueda never forgot that ride to San Isidro. Had it not been for her mother's tears, she would have been more than happy. She had always wished to ride in the new bull-cart; Juan Filipe had promised her many a time. Now he was at last keeping his promise. This argued well. If she could take one ride, how many more might she not have? All the time during that little trip to San Isidro, Agueda was asking herself mental questions. There was no use in speaking to her mother. She only looked far away toward Los Alamos, and answered "Yes" and "No" at random. Agueda remembered with what delight she had seen the patient bulls turn the creaking cart into the camino which led to San Isidro.