Fernando was frightened, too, but he was a brave boy, and he tried his best to push his mother up out of danger, boosting her as she slipped down, but not helping very much, as you might suppose. It seemed to him an hour, but it was only a minute before servants came from the house, and as they did so a horse dashed up before the pillars, and, stopped too hastily by his rider, slid along the stones on his hind feet. On his back was Pablo, waving his _sombrero_, and crying, "What a _corrido_! It was glorious! Six bulls to die, and Rosito never in such form! But, _madre mia_, what is the matter?" as he sprang from his horse and assisted his mother to a seat. The señora could not speak, but Fernando said, "We thought the noise was a bull escaped, and I was assisting my mother to a height of safety." Pablo looked at the little figure speaking so gravely, then threw back his head and shouted with laughter, but seeing Fernando's hurt expression, stopped quickly, and said: "Bravo, little brother, thou art a good knight to care for thy mother and sister!" "Better than thou!" His mother had regained her voice by this time. "Thou art still the same Pablo, and will yet be the death of thy poor mother," but Pablo kissed her hand so gallantly, and begged her pardon so amiably, that she quite forgave him. Next day, alas! it was raining, and it rained so hard all that day, and nearly all of the next, that the children were like little bears in a cage. They played with everything they could think of, but after awhile they grew restless and quarrelled so that the grown-up folk grew nervous, too. At last, Mariquita's father, gay and charming Uncle Ruy, came to the rescue. "Who wants to take a trip into the country with me?" he asked, and as each one squealed "I!" he said: "Of course we can't go, really, but we can make believe, and I shall take you to a _hacienda_ outside the old wall of Sevilla. "It lies amidst orange and olive groves, and all kinds of flowers, and many of the things we eat come from that very place. Who knows how they pickle olives?" "Are olives pickled?" asked Juanita, and Mariquita said: "How queer it seems that all the things we eat have to go through so much before they can be eaten. I did not know that olives had to be pickled."