“It is cool here,” she said.

“Yes, senorita.”  They were not deceived, but they dared not stare at her, with Faquita’s scowl upon them.

“What news has the wash-tub mail to-day?” asked the girl, with an attempt at lightness.  “Did an enemy invade the South this morning, and have you heard it already, as when General Kearney came?  Is General Castro still in Baja California, or has he fled to Mexico?  Has Dona Prudencia Iturbi y Moncada given a ball this week at Santa Barbara?  Have Don Diego and Dona Chonita—?”

“The young Lieutenant is ill,” blurted out one of the old women, then cowered until she almost fell into her tub.  Faquita sprang forward and caught the girl in her arms.

“Thou old fool!” she cried furiously.  “Thou devil!  Mayst thou find a tarantula in thy bed to-night.  Mayst thou dream thou art roasting in hell.”  She carried La Tulita rapidly across the meadow.

“Ah, I thought I should hear there,” said the girl, with a laugh.  “Thank heaven for the wash-tub mail.”

Faquita nursed her through a long illness.  She recovered both health and reason, and one day the old woman brought her word that the young Lieutenant was well again—­and that his illness had been brief and slight.

THE LAST

“Ay, but the years go quick!” said Mariquita, as she flapped a piece of linen after taking it from the water.  “I wonder do all towns sleep like this.  Who can believe that once it is so gay?  The balls!  The grand caballeros!  The serenades!  The meriendas!  No more!  No more!  Almost I forget the excitement when the Americanos coming.  I no am young any more.  Ay, yi!”

“Poor Faquita, she just died of old age,” said a woman who had been young with Mariquita, spreading an article of underwear on a bush.  “Her life just drop out like her teeth.  No one of the old women that taught us to wash is here now, Mariquita.  We are the old ones now, and we teach the young, ay, yi!”

“Well, it is a comfort that the great grow old like the low people.  High birth cannot keep the skin white and the body slim.  Ay, look!  Who can think she is so beautiful before?”

A woman was coming down the road from the town.  A woman, whom passing years had browned, although leaving the fine strong features uncoarsened.  She was dressed simply in black, and wore a small American bonnet.  The figure had not lost the slimness of its youth, but the walk was stiff and precise.  The carriage evinced a determined will.

“Ay, who can think that once she sway like the tule!” said Mariquita, with a sigh.  “Well, when she come to-day I have some news.  A letter, we used to call it, dost thou remember, Brigida?  Who care for the wash-tub mail now?  These Americanos never hear of it, and our people—­triste de mi—­have no more the interest in anything.”

“Tell us thy news,” cried many voices.  The older women had never lost their interest in La Tulita.  The younger ones had heard her story many times, and rarely passed the wall before her house without looking at the tall rose-bush which had all the pride of a young tree.