ould 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.

"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 woma