“I was thinking of going today, but if you want me to go with you, I’ll wait until tomorrow.”
“Very well, we’ll wait until tomorrow.”
The Countess had made friends at the farm. Late in the afternoon she would take her sewing to the door, and, sitting in the shade, would work among the women of the house. They told her about their lives and their troubles, and she listened with great interest. Quentin and Pacheco used to join the group and chat until the farm bell signalled the labourers, and night fell, and the flocks of goats returned with a great tinkling of bells.
The labourers’ children used to play in front of the doorway; three of them had made friends with the Countess. They were three children who had been left motherless; Miguel, the eldest, was seven, Dolores, the second, was five, and Carmen, the third, was three.
The eldest was very lively, already a little rascal; the second had a tangled mass of blond hair, sad, blue eyes, and a sun-burned face; she wore one of her father’s vests, a dirty apron, stockings around her ankles, and a pair of huge shoes. The littlest one spent hour after hour with her finger thrust into her mouth.
These three children, accustomed to being alone, were content to play with each other; they played around, striking and throwing each other about the ground, and never cried.
“She bosses ’em all,” said one of the old wives to the Countess, pointing to the second child.
“Poor girl. What is your name?”
“Dolores.”
The Countess looked at the child, who lowered her eyes.