"Curses come home to the people who utter them," said the girl, drearily. "On my head they all lie--the curse by which I was made blind for a little, little while of life, and which now allows me to see when it is too late. The curse of God has followed our people; no blessing of the Church can wipe it out." "But I--I--beloved?" "The sin that is for love is not so black a sin, and it was your love the padre trusted to--your fear that I was bewitched and lost. But it is all over; we are in a new land, and this is a new life." "And--he is happy--without thee?" "I have seen his wife; people call her beautiful. I saw him almost touching her, yet I did not scream." "Mother of God! his wife!" "I heard her name,--it was enough. His I did not need to ask; I remembered." "But--dear one--it is better that he is married. Pardon, beloved--I am at thy feet, and I feel thy heartache. But, after all, is it not to thank the saints that he is married?" "Perhaps. Otherwise, he might say to me some day, 'Come!' And the witchcraft of the ring might hold, and--" "Holy Mother! and then--" "And I--God knows what I might do, Polonia." And then the old Indian woman was left alone, mumbling prayers and crossing herself. Later she got up and went to the priest of Our Lady of the Angels and brought a bottle of holy water to sprinkle on the threshold of the street door, and all sides of Dona Raquel's room, that no curse of witchcraft or bad dream of the night might have power over the days. It was broad daylight when Rafael came home whistling gayly a dance of melody. He had been gifted with unusual good luck, and his pockets were full of gold pieces. He threw a buckskin sack of coin on his wife's bed before he noticed that she was not lying there. "Hola! Raquelita mia! There is plenty to pay for masses; your priests always want money for that sort of thing. Since you look after my soul, I pay for the prayers when I have good luck." Raquel arose from where she knelt at the little altar in the corner. "Oh, is that where you are? What need to pay the priests when you do enough praying for an army?" She smiled absently, but did not speak. He stood watching her as she brushed her mass of dark, slightly waving hair. "Let your woman do that," he said at last, with perfunctory solicitude. "It tires your arm, and I don't want you tired to-day. There is a picnic, and we should go." "Which of our friends make it?" "It is Dona Maria Downing, who, as our one neighbor down the country, wants to add to the entertainment Los Angeles gives you. It is to make peace with the bishop, I think; at least, so it looks. He is invited. You can help them to be friends. Is that not the duty of us both as good Catholics?" She halted in her task and looked at him quietly. He was plainly set on being very agreeable, for some reason; too seldom had he mentioned their faith but to scoff at the rigid rules of his mother and his wife.