It was an unthrifty-looking place, El Cuco—very small, as its name implied. How Don Mateo had asked any woman to marry him with no more to give her than the small plantation of El Cuco, one could not imagine. The place was little more than a conuco, and Don Mateo, through careless ways and losses at gambling, selling a little strip of field here and some forest land there, was gradually reducing the property to the size of a native holding.

The lady who had inveigled Don Mateo into marrying her sat upon the veranda, fat and hearty. Her eyes were beginning to open to the fact that Don Mateo had not been quite candid with her. He had said, "My house is not very fine, SeÑorita, but I have land; and if you will come there as my wife, we will begin to build a new casa as soon as the crops are in and paid for." The crops had never come in, as far as the SeÑora had discovered; and how could crops be paid for before they were gathered? There had grown up within the household a very fine crop of complaints, but these Don Mateo smoothed over with his ready excuses and kindliness of manner.

Agueda leaned down to the small footpath gate to unfasten the latch. She found that the gate was standing a little way open and sunk in the mud, but that there was no room to pass through.

"Go round to the other side," called a voice from the veranda.

A half-dozen little children, of all shades, came trooping down the path. Then, as she turned to ride round the dilapidated palings, they scampered across the yard, a space covered by some sort of wild growth. They met her in a troop at the large gate, which was also sunk in the ground through the sagging of its hinges. Fortunately, it had stood so widely open now for some years that entrance was quite feasible.

Agueda struck spur to CastaÑo's side, and he trotted round to the veranda. They stopped at the front steps, and throwing her foot over the saddle, Agueda prepared to dismount.

"What do you want here?" asked a fat voice from the end of the veranda.

"I should like to see Aneta, SeÑora," said Agueda. "May one of the peons take my horse?"

"You can go round to the back, where Aneta is, then," answered the SeÑora, without rising. "She is washing her dishes, and it is not you who shall disturb her."

Agueda looked up with astonishment. The last time that she had come to El Cuco, Aneta had sat on the veranda in the very place where the stranger was sitting now. That chair, Don Mateo had brought over from Saltona once as a present for Aneta. It was an American chair, and Aneta used to sit and rock in it by the hour and sing some happy song. Agueda remembered how Aneta had twisted some red and yellow ribbons through the wicker work. Those ribbons were replaced now by blue and pink ones.

Without a word Agueda rode round the house. Arrived at the tumble-down veranda which jutted out from the servants' quarters, she heard sounds which, taken in conjunction with the SeÑora's words, suggested Aneta's presence. When Aneta heard the sound of horse's hoofs she came to the open shutter. Agueda saw that her eyes were red and swollen. A faint smile of welcome overspread Aneta's features, which was succeeded at once by a shamefaced look that Agueda should see her in this menial position.

"Dear Agueda!" said she; "how glad I am to see you! But this is no place for you."

"I wish that you could come down to the river," said Agueda. "I have so much to ask you. Who is the SeÑora on the veranda, Aneta?"

"Do you not know then that he is married?" asked Aneta, the tears beginning to flow again.

"Married!" exclaimed Agueda, aghast. "To the SeÑora on the veranda?"

Aneta nodded her head, while the salt tears dropped down on the towel with which she was slowly wiping a large platter. Agueda was guilty of a slight bit of deceit in this. She had heard that Don Mateo was married, but it had never occurred to her that things would be so sadly changed for Aneta. Somehow she had expected to find her as she had always found her, seated on the veranda in the wicker chair, the red and yellow ribbons fluttering in the breeze, and in her lap the embroidery with which she had ever struggled.

"Can you come down by the river?" asked Agueda.

"I suppose that I must finish these dishes," said Aneta, through her tears. "Oh, Agueda, you have had nothing to eat, I am sure. You have come so far. Let me get you something."

"Yes, I have come far, Aneta. I should like a little something." It did not occur to Agueda to decline because of the SeÑora's rudeness. She had never heard of any one's being refused food at any hut, rancho, or casa in the island. The stranger was always welcome to what the host possessed, poor though it might be.

"I will not dismount," said Agueda. "Perhaps you can hand me a cup of coffee through the window." Agueda rode close to the opening. Aneta laid her dish down on the table, and went to the stove, from which she took the pot of the still hot coffee. She poured out a cupful, and handed it to Agueda.

"Some sugar, please," said Agueda, holding the cup back again. Aneta dipped a spoon in the sugar bowl which was standing on the table in its pan of water. It was a large pan, for "there are even some ants who can swim very well," so Aneta declared. Agueda took the cup gratefully, and drained it as only a girl can who has ridden many miles with no midday meal.

"I hoped that I should be asked to breakfast, Aneta," said Agueda, wistfully. She remembered the time when she had sat at the table with Aneta, and partaken of a pleasant meal.

"I can hand you some cassava bread through the window, Agueda," said Aneta, with no further explanation.

She took from the cupboard a large round of the cassava and handed it to Agueda. Agueda broke it eagerly and ate hungrily.

"That is good, Aneta. Some more coffee, please."

Aneta took up the pot to pour out a second cup.

"And who told you that you might give my food away?"

The voice was the fat voice of the SeÑora. She had exerted herself sufficiently to come to the kitchen door.

"Pardon, SeÑora!" said Agueda. Her face expressed the astonishment that she felt. She unconsciously continued to eat the round of cassava bread.

"You are still eating?"

Agueda looked at the woman in astonishment.

"Does the SeÑora mean that I shall not eat the bread?" asked she.

"We do not keep a house of refreshment," said the SeÑora.

Agueda handed the remainder of the cassava bread to Aneta.

"I see you do not, SeÑora. Come, Aneta, come down to the river."

Aneta looked hesitatingly at the SeÑora.

"You need not mind the SeÑora, Aneta. She does not own you."

At this Aneta looked frightened, and the SeÑora as angry as her double chin would allow.

"If the girl leaves, she need not return," said the SeÑora.

"My work is nearly done," said Aneta, with a fresh flood of tears.

"Crying, Aneta! I am ashamed of you. Come, I will help you finish your dishes."

Agueda rode around to the veranda pilotijo and dismounted. She tied CastaÑo there, as is the custom, taking care that she chose the pilotijo furthest removed from the main post, where several machetes were buried with a deep blade stroke.

The SeÑora was too heavy and lazy to object to Agueda's generosity. She seated herself in the doorway and watched the process of dish-washing. When the girls had finished, the worn towels wrung dry and hung on the line, Aneta took from the veranda nail her old straw hat.

"On further thought, you cannot go," said the SeÑora. "I need some work done in my room."

Agueda put her arm round Aneta.

"I bought her off," she said. "Come, Aneta, I have so little time."

At these words the SeÑora had the spirit to rise and flap the cushion of a shuffling sole on the floor in imitation of a stamp of the foot.

"You cannot go," she said.

For answer the two girls strolled down toward the river, CastaÑo's bridle over Agueda's arm, Aneta trembling at her new-found courage.

Aneta was a very pretty, pale girl, with bronze-coloured hair, although her complexion was thick and muddy, showing the faint strain of blood which made her, and would always hold her, inferior to the pure Spanish or American type. Her eyes were of a greenish cast, and though small, were sweet and modest. She was perhaps twenty-three at this time. It is sad to have lived one's life at the age of twenty-three.

"I have so many years before me, Agueda," said Aneta.

"Why do you stay here?" asked Agueda.

"Where have I to go?" asked Aneta.

"That is true," assented Agueda.

"My father will not have me back. He says that I should have been smart and married Don Mateo; but I never thought of being smart, 'Gueda; I never thought of anything but how I loved him."

A pang of pity pierced the heart of Agueda, all the stronger because she herself was so secure.

The two girls walked down toward the shining river. CastaÑo followed along behind, nibbling and browsing until a jerk of the bridle caused him to raise his head and continue his march.

The river was glancing along below the bank. Low and shallow, it had settled here and there into great pools, or spread out thinly over the banks of gravel which rose between.

"Can we bathe, Aneta?" asked Agueda.

"I suppose so," said Aneta, mournfully.

"Smile, Aneta, do smile. It makes me wretched to see you so sad."

Aneta shook her head.

"What have I left, Agueda?"

Agueda hung CastaÑo's bridle on a limb, and seeking a sheltered spot, the two girls undressed and plunged into the water, a pool near the shore providing a basin. One may bathe there with perfect seclusion. The ford is far below, and no one has reason to come to this lonely spot. The water was cool and delicious to Agueda's tired frame.

"Agueda," said Aneta, as they were drying themselves in the sun, "will CastaÑo carry double?"

"Why, Aneta, I suppose he will. I never tried him."

"I promised El Rey to come to see him one day soon. That was weeks ago. You know that Roseta has gone. The little creature is alone. If I should go there by myself the SeÑora would say bad things about me. She would say that I had gone for some wrong purpose. God knows I have no wrong purpose in my heart."

"Yes, I will go with you," said Agueda. "But, we must hasten. I have been away so long already. What time should you think it is, Aneta?"

Aneta turned to the west and looked up to the sky with that critical eye which rural dwellers who possess no timepiece acquire.

"Perhaps three o'clock, Agueda, perhaps four. Not so very late."

"So that I am home by six it will do," said Agueda.

She reproached herself that she should think of the happiness that awaited her at home while Aneta was so sad.

When they were again dressed, Agueda mounted CastaÑo, and riding close to an old mahogany stump, gave her hand to Aneta, aiding her to spring up to the horse's flank. CastaÑo was not over-pleased at this addition to his burden, but he made no serious demonstration, and started off toward the ford. The ford crossed, Agueda guided CastaÑo along the bank of the stream.

"Is this the Brandon place?" asked Agueda.

"No," said Aneta. "It is part of the Silencio estate."

Again Agueda felt the flush arise which had made her uncomfortable in the morning.

"I have never been this way," said Agueda, who was following Aneta's directions. "I was there this morning, but I rode down the gran' camino."

"You went there?"

"Yes; to carry a note."

"To the SeÑor?"

"Am I going right, Aneta?"

"Yes," said the easily diverted Aneta. "Follow the little path. They live on the river bank below the hill." In a few moments a thatched roof began to show through the trees.

"There it is," said Aneta; "there is Andres' rancho."

When they arrived at the rancho they found that the door was closed. Agueda rapped with her whip. "They are all away, I think," said she.

"Oh! then, they are not all away," piped a little voice from the inside. "Take the key from the window, and I will let you open my door."

Agueda laughed. Aneta slid off the horse, and Agueda rode to the high window, from whose ledge she took a key.

"My Roseta, is that you?" called the child's voice.

Aneta looked up at Agueda and shook her head with a pitying motion. The child's sorrow had effaced her own for the time.

"No, El Rey," she called; "it is Aneta, and I bring Agueda, from San Isidro."

"You are welcome, SeÑoritas," piped the little voice again.

By this time Aneta had inserted the key in the lock and opened the door. A small, thin child was sitting on the edge of a low bed. He arose to greet them with a show of politeness which struggled against weariness.

"Andres and Roseta are away," he said. "Andres said that he would bring her if he could find her."

Agueda had heard of El Rey, but she had never seen the child before.

"I should think he would surely bring her," said she in a comforting tone. She was seeing much misery to-day. She felt reproached for being so happy herself, but she looked forward to her home-coming as recompense for it all.

"Would you like to come to San Isidro some time, El Rey?" she asked.

"Does Roseta ever come there?" asked the child.

"She has never been yet, but she may come some day," answered Agueda, with that merciful deceit which keeps hope ever springing in the breast.

Aneta stooped down towards the floor.

"Have you anything to play with, El Rey?" she asked.

"El Rey has buttons. El Rey has a book that the SeÑor at Palmacristi gave him, but he is tired of those. When will Roseta come?"

Agueda turned away.

"I cannot bear it," she said.

El Rey looked at her curiously.

"Would you like to ride the pretty little horse, El Rey?"

The child walked slowly to the door and peered wistfully out.

"El Rey would like to ride; but Roseta might come."

"We will not go far," said Agueda. "Come, let me lift you up." El Rey suffered himself to be lifted to the horse's back, but his eyes were ever searching the dim vista of the woodland for the form that did not appear.

"I cannot enjoy it, SeÑora," said he, politely. "El Rey would enjoy the SeÑora's kindness if Roseta could see him ride."

"I must go, Aneta," said Agueda, her eyes moist.

She lifted the child down from CastaÑo's back. He at once entered the casa. He turned in the doorway, his thin little figure occupying small space against the dark background.

"Adios, SeÑoritas," said the child. "Oh! will the SeÑoritas please put the key on the window ledge?"

"We cannot lock you in, El Rey," said Agueda.

"Do you mean that we are to lock you in, El Rey?" asked Aneta at the same time.

"Will the SeÑoritas please not talk," said the child. "I cannot hear. I sit and listen all day. If the SeÑoritas talk I cannot hear if any one comes."

"But must we lock the door?" asked Agueda.

"Is that what Andres wishes?" asked Aneta.

"If you please, SeÑorita; put the key on the window ledge."

"I shall not lock him in," said Aneta. "I cannot do it. I will stay a while, El Rey," she said.

Aneta sat down in the doorway, her head upon her hand. She belongs not to the detail of this story. She is only one of that majority of suffering ignorant beings with whom the world is filled, who make the dark background against which happier souls shine out. Agueda rode back to the ford. She galloped CastaÑo now. At the entrance of the forest she turned and threw a kiss to Aneta. The girl was still in the doorway, but El Rey was not to be seen. Agueda fancied him sitting on the low bed, his ear strained to catch the fall of a faraway footstep.

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