"Oh, threats--and little gatherings--and demonstrations. They are always restless, and the slightest thing sets them off. Crowell discharged one of his surliest men the other day. Unfortunately, the chap is related to half Guayabal. We've some of his cousins and brothers and uncles on this place, I suppose! Anyway, this Miguel person has been going about trying to incite the people to open enmity against the resident Americans. Of course, it probably won't amount to a hill of beans, but you never know where you stand." "Haven't they just finished a comic-opera revolution here?" asked Wright. "Seems to me I read something about it." "There are always uprisings," answered Mercedes, covering a yawn, "generally in the eastern districts--nearer Santiago. They are like children, these people." She turned, with a shrug which dismissed the subject, to Bill. "Come," she urged prettily, "play my accompaniment for me. I want to sing you some of the old songs my little, Spanish grandmother taught her grandchildren." We had a little while before we need dress for dinner, and so Bill followed her obediently into the living-room, and presently, her light, sweet voice floated out to Wright and me on the verandah. "Sings well, doesn't she?" said Wright. But I was not attending. "Doesn't Bill seem worried to you?" I asked, more casually than my mental state warranted. "Who? Bill? Why no, I don't think so," he answered, absently. "He's probably put all this native business out of his head by now. Bill's not an alarmist. Wonder what that song is--quaint, isn't it?" But I was not satisfied, and after dinner, I deliberately found an opportunity, contrary to custom, to speak with my husband alone. "About the Crowell plantation," I said, "is there any danger to them from the natives--to us?" "There is always more or less danger," he answered, with the formal courtesy which had recently characterized all of our infrequent, unattended encounters, "but I do not think we need worry. Still, I shall forbid Peter to go out in the fields, or beyond the house alone, and I must ask you also to be careful. I'm sorry to curtail your freedom--but, if you don't mind--?" Perversely, I suddenly "minded" very much. "I won't run any risks," I answered, with mental reservations. "There you two are again! Sneaking off, whispering, heads together! Aren't you just a little tired of twosing by now?" It was Wright, coming up behind us. I thought I detected a little, cynical gleam in Mercedes' eyes, and laid my hand defiantly on Bill's arm. "Are _you_ tired?" I asked him gaily. He laid his free hand over mine. "Do men tire of life?" he counter questioned, gallantly, and I knew a swift admiration for his histrionic powers. For his voice went a little deep, quite suddenly, and the hand over mine shook.