Quentin laughed; the little girl’s manner of speech amused him immensely.
“Don’t laugh,” said Rafaela to Quentin with mock gravity; “my little girl is very sensitive.”
“What did you say to him?” demanded Remedios of her sister.
“Oh, you rascal! He’s heard it, now,” Rafaela exclaimed humorously; and seizing the child about the waist, she kissed the back of her neck.
It was beginning to clear up; the dark clouds were moving off, leaving the sky clear; a ray of sunshine struck a tower formed by three arches set one above the other. In the three spaces, they could see the motionless bells; a figure of San Rafael spread its wings from the peak of the roof.
“What is that figure?” asked Quentin.
“It belongs to the church of San Pedro,” replied the servant.
“Is it hollow like a weather-vane?”
“It’s stopped raining now,” said Remedios. “Have you seen the house yet,” she added, turning to Quentin, and using the familiar second person.