“Manuel!” she cried. “What’s the matter? what makes you look so queer? are you sick, Manuel?” “Yes!” cried the man roughly. “I am sick! sick of this place, sick of these people. I am going away, back to the west, where a man can live without being watched and spied upon and stung by ants and wasps.” “Going away! Manuel!” the poppies dropped from the girl’s hands, the rich color fled from her cheeks. “If you go,” she said simply, “I shall die.” Rachel had never learned to govern herself. Well, after that there was only one way out of it—at least for a man like Manuel. Among all these cold, thin-blooded Eastern folk, here was one whose blood ran warm and swift and red like his own. No satin lily that a man dared not touch, but a bright poppy like those in her hair, fit and ready to be gathered. Yet when he passed the white lilies, with his arm round the girl, his promised wife—even while he looked down at the rapture of her face and thrilled at the thrill in her voice—the fragrance of the lilies seemed a tangible thing, like a thorn that pierced him. At the garden door they parted. He had to see to the stock, he said; would Rachel tell Grandmother? Rachel ran into the house, calling Grandmother. There was no answer; but listening she heard the sound of the wheel in the big empty chamber overhead. She ran up-stairs, still calling. Grandmother was spinning wool—she loved to spin—at the great wool-wheel, stepping lightly back and forward; but at the first sound of Rachel’s voice below she stopped, and put her hand to her heart. She was standing so when the girl rushed in, panting and radiant. “Grandmother! why didn’t you answer? didn’t you hear me?” She never waited for an answer but ran on in a torrent of speech. “Grandmother, I’ve been hateful to you, and I’m sorry. Do you hear? I’m sorry, sorry; I’m so happy now, I mean to be good, good all the time. Do you know what’s going to happen, Grandmother? guess! I’ll give you three guesses—no, I won’t, I won’t give you one! I must tell you. I am going to marry Manuel. Grandmother, are you glad? You are so good, I suppose you’ll be glad. I should hate you, I should kill you, if it were you who were going to marry Manuel. Do you know”—she caught her breath a moment, then laughed on, the laugh rippling through her speech—“do you know, Grandmother, I have been jealous of you. I’ve always been jealous I guess; first because of Grandfather—poor old Grandfather, what a pity he isn’t alive to know!—and then—and lately—oh, Grandmother, I didn’t know—I didn’t know but he might care about you. Are you laughing? it is funny, isn’t it?” But Grandmother was not laughing.