it there like a cigarette as she looked under
her eyelashes at the people. The rose was not as red as her scornful
little mouth.

"He was always kind to her when he saw her," continued Manuel. "Once he
gave her his _devisa_. When she died she held it in her hand and
would not let it go. It was buried with her. She was a pretty
child--Sarita--but she had always lived in the country and knew
nothing."

"I have always lived in the country and I know nothing," said Pepita,
mocking him with her great eyes; "but _I_ can help anything I choose. It
should be the others who cannot help it."

She thought him dull and tiresome, and soon wished he would go away,
but he could not help it, and lingered about with all sorts of stupid
excuses. The more she bewildered him, the more he was fascinated. It was
almost enough to stand and stare at her and hear her voice as she talked
to the others. How pretty she was--that girl--how she held her head
as if she was some high-born lady instead of a peasant! When some
passer-by, more bold than the rest, made (loud enough to be heard) some
comment upon her beauty, it did not disturb her in the least--it was as
if it were nothing to her. Was it possible that there could live a girl
who did not care that she was so pretty? But to imagine that she did not
care was to make a great mistake--she cared very much. Ever since she
had been a tiny child, her little mirror and the water of the fountain
had reflected back to her this pretty face, with its soft rose of cheek
and mouth, its dark liquid eyes, and soft babyish rings of hair curling
on the forehead. She had always heard too that she was pretty, and as
she had grown older she had found out something else, namely, that she
had a power more strong and subtle than that of her beauty--a power
people did not even try to resist. She did not call it by any name
herself or understand it in the least. She often wondered at it, and
even sometimes had a childish secret terror lest the Evil One might have
something to do with it; particularly when without making any effort,
when simply standing apart and looking on at the rest, with a little
smile she had drawn to her side the stupid love-making for which she
cared nothing. It was not so with Dolores and Maria and Isabella, who
were pretty too. Somehow, handsome as they were, they must use their
eyes on their lovers, they must laugh and dance and talk to be adored,
while she need do nothing but be Pepita.