She was aroused by shouting and sounds of merriment.  She raised her head dully, but remembered in a moment what Faquita had left her to await.  The dawn lay rosily on the town.  The shimmering light in the pine woods was crossed and recrossed by the glare of rockets.  Down the street came the sound of singing voices, the words of the song heralding the flight of a child-spirit to a better world.  La Tulita slipped out of the back door and went to her home without meeting the procession.  But before she shut herself in her room she awakened Ana, and giving her a purse of gold, bade her buy a little coffin draped with white and garlanded with white flowers.

PART III

“Tell us, tell us, Mariquita, does she water the rose-tree every night?”

“Every night, ay, yi!”

“And is it big yet?  Ay, but that wall is high!  Not a twig can I see!”

“Yes, it grows!”

“And he comes not?”

“He write.  I see the letters.”

“But what does he say?”

“How can I know?”

“And she goes to the balls and meriendas no more.  Surely, they will forget her.  It is more than a year now.  Some one else will be La Favorita.”

“She does not care.”

“Hush the voices,” cried Faquita, scrubbing diligently.  “It is well that she stay at home and does not dance away her beauty before he come.  She is like a lily.”

“But lilies turn brown, old Faquita, when the wind blow on them too long.  Dost thou think he will return?”

“Surely,” said Faquita, stoutly.  “Could any one forget that angel?”

“Ay, these men, these men!” said Francesca, with a sigh.

“Oh, thou old raven!” cried Mariquita.  “But truly—­truly—­she has had no letter for three months.”

“Aha, senorita, thou didst not tell us that just now.”

“Nor did I intend to.  The words just fell from my teeth.”

“He is ill,” cried Faquita, angrily.  “Ay, my probrecita!  Sometimes I think Ysabel is more happy under the rocks.”

“How dost thou know he is ill?  Will he die?” The wash-tub mail had made too few mistakes in its history to admit of doubt being cast upon the assertion of one of its officials.

“I hear Captain Brotherton read from a letter to Dona Eustaquia.  Ay, they are happy!”

“When?”

“Two hours ago.”

“Then we know before the town—­like always.”

“Surely.  Do we not know all things first?  Hist!”

The women dropped their heads and fumbled at the linen in the water.  La Tulita was approaching.

She came across the meadow with all her old swinging grace, the blue gown waving about her like the leaves of a California lily when the wind rustled the forest.  But the reboso framed a face thin and pale, and the sparkle was gone from her eyes.  She passed the tubs and greeted the old women pleasantly, walked a few steps up the hill, then turned as if in obedience to an afterthought, and sat down on a stone in the shade of a willow.