"Oh," she said, clapping her hands, "we are going to Uncle Adan's!"
For was not this Uncle Adan's casa, and did not Don Beltran live with Uncle Adan? She was not sure. But when she had been there with her mother, she had seen that splendid tall Don Beltran about the house with the dogs, or with his bulls in the field, or in his shooting coat with his gun slung across his shoulder, or going with his fishing-tackle to the river. Yes, she was sure that Don Beltran lived at Uncle Adan's house.
Agueda's thoughts sped with the rapidity that reminiscence brings, and as she placed some rounds of cassava bread in the basket she saw her mother doing the same, as if it were but yesterday, and saying between halting breaths:
"Never trust a gentleman—Agueda—marry some—plain, honest—man—a man of—our people, Agueda—but do not—trust—"
"Who are our people, mother?" the girl had interrupted.
Aye, who were their people?
Nada had not answered. She had lain her thin arms round Agueda's unformed shoulders, turned the girl's head backward with the other hand laid upon her brow, and gazed steadily into the good grey eyes.
"My little Agueda," she had said—stopped short, and sighed. It was hopeless. There was no escape from the burden of inheritance. Agueda had not understood the cause of her mother's sigh and her halting words. She had been ill to death—that she knew. Then came long years of patience, as Agueda grew to girlhood. Could it be only six months ago that she had lost her?
"My sweet Nada," she whispered, as she laid a napkin over the contents of the basket, "I do not know what you meant, but I do not forget you, Nada."
"Hasten, Agueda! There is no danger, but there is no need of getting a wetting."