Nevertheless, after a moment's survey of her lonely chamber, she
hastily slipped on a pale satin dressing-gown, and, darting across
the passage, dashed into the bedroom of the youngest Miss Wilson,
haled that sentimental brunette from her night toilet, dragged her
into her own chamber, and, enwrapping her in a huge mantle of silk
and gray fur, fed her with chocolates and chestnuts, and, reclining
on her sympathetic shoulder, continued her arraignment of the world
and its follies until nearly daybreak.
It was past noon when Maruja awoke, to find Faquita standing by her
bedside with ill-concealed impatience.
"I ventured to awaken the Dona Maruja," she said, with vivacious
alacrity, "for news! Terrible news! The American, Dr. West, is
found dead this morning in the San Jose road!"
"Dr. West dead!" repeated Maruja, thoughtfully, but without
emotion.
"Surely dead--very dead. He was thrown from his horse and dragged
by the stirrups--how far, the Blessed Virgin only knows. But he is
found dead--this Dr. West--his foot in the broken stirrup, his hand
holding a piece of the bridle! I thought I would waken the Dona
Maruja, that no one else should break it to the Dona Maria."
"That no one else should break it to my mother?" repeated Maruja,
coldly. "What mean you, girl?"
"I mean that no stranger should tell her," stammered Faquita,
lowering her bold eyes.
"You mean," said Maruja, slowly, "that no silly, staring, tongue-
wagging gossip should dare to break upon the morning devotions of
the lady mother with open-mouthed tales of horror! You are wise,
Faquita! I will tell her myself.
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