"A vow to what?"
"To Saint Teresa."
"To a saint! Are you hiding your lovely hair just to keep a vow to a saint?"
"Sí, señor."
"Well, I declare! think of that! Wait, don't put it back on right now...."
Nevertheless she replaced the bonnet, smiling faintly at his protesting face. Then she became concerned about him.
"I didn't know you were out of bed. You ought not to be, Señor Tomas. You look quite worn out. Come over here, on this couch by the window."
She was swiftly becoming herself again, pleasant, softly gracious, and remote. She crossed the room, took his arm, and helped him to the wicker couch she had indicated. Her mere presence and touch wove a deep comfort about the sick man. Whatever were her relations with Saturnino, they faded into a small matter in the atmosphere of her delicate charm. Strawbridge leaned back against the end of the couch, looking at her.
"What were you crying about when I came in, señora?" he asked simply.