The days of Dona Angela's stay had brought her face to face with many self-satisfying little scenes of that sort. Remembering that first meeting of the two as strangers, it was comforting to Angela to be able to look down in some way on the wife of Rafael Arteaga; and since she chose to make of herself a servant---- It seemed so incredible to the woman who had never, never, had all she wanted of luxury, that this other girl, young, and many said handsome, had not the natural woman's vanity for decking herself with the gorgeous things stacked in those old chests. To her it seemed a warrant to Rafael to seek companionship elsewhere. A woman who could claim a throne lessened her value by stooping to the cares of the kitchen. It argued low tastes; it emphasized the uneven division of things. It was a constant reminder to Angela Bryton that she, the woman who appreciated it all, who would have held a half-regal Court of Love in the old walls where only endless prayers were whispered,--she was the woman to whom it should belong by right. For her, Rafael Arteaga would have spread carpets of velvet on the tiled floors and cast himself, happy, at her feet. All these thoughts had given her a sort of insolent courage to comment on the girl who trod the Mission-made bricks, and whose eyes looked out so often over one's head. "Of all the Indian servants, have you none trained in so laborious a task as this?" she asked, sinking into one of the rawhide-seated chairs at the table. "It is horrid work. I wonder you spoil your hands." Ana flashed a glance of resentment at the languid blossom of a woman, always a shimmer of lacy ruffles, a picture of alluring, half-childish helplessness. It was for such a white kitten Rafael was losing all his sense. "I should be proud to use my hands for the same work, instead of this endless embroidery," she observed; "but Dona Raquel will not hear of it." "To mould the candles for the altar, each woman of each house should make her own," returned Raquel, quietly. "You have not that custom in your land--no?" "Certainly not. We are not taught that extra pounds of beef tallow will help to save our souls if burned in silver holders." "No? What, then, does it take to save souls in your country?" "Those who come here leave their souls at home for safe-keeping," declared Ana, thrusting her needle viciously into the embroideries of lawn; "they only bring their long purses to be filled." For one moment the snapping black eyes of Ana met the childish blue ones of Angela and carried in their glance an accusation and understanding. Angela's pretty teeth closed with a vicious click under her red lips, then she shrugged her dimpled shoulders, and laughed. "Oh, you see of course only the merchants here," she conceded, "the people who buy hides, and tallow, and herds of horses." Then she turned again to Raquel, who had seen some of the little byplay.