The Señora was sitting in a corner of the dim cool room, and rose at once to greet him. She came forward with a grace and dignity of carriage that still had the power to prick his admiration. But she was very dark, and the old enchanting smile had lost its way long since in the large cheeks and heavy chin. Even her eyes no longer looked big, and the famous lashes had been worn down by many tears; for there were six little graves in the Ortega corner of the Mission church-yard, and she had loved her children devotedly. She carried her two hundred pounds as unconsciously as she had once carried her willowy inches, and she wore soft black cashmere in winter and lawn in summer, fastened at the throat with a miniature of the husband of her youth. She was only thirty-nine, but there was not a vestige of youth about her anywhere, and her whole being expressed a life lived, and a sleepy contentment with the fact. Talbot often wondered if she had no hours of insupportable loneliness; but she gave no sign, and he concluded that novels and religion sufficed. "So hot it is, no?" she said in her soft hardly audible tones, that, like her carriage and manner, were unchanged. "You have the face very red, but feel better in a little while. Very cool here, no?" "I feel ten years younger than I did a quarter of an hour ago. There was a time--alas!--when I could stand the suns of California for six hours at a stretch, but--" "Ay, yes, we grow more old every year. Is twenty now since we _merienda_ all day and dance all night--when I am a visitor here, no more; and you are the thin boy with the long arms, and legs, and try to grow the mustache." It was the first time she had ever referred to their youth, and he stared at her. But her face was as placid as if she had been helping him to chicken with Chile-sauce, and he wondered if it could change. Involuntarily he glanced at the portrait. It seemed alive with expression, and--the room was almost dark--he fancied the eyes were tragic. "How can she stand it?" he thought. "How _can_ she?" "You are improve," she continued politely. "The American mens no grow old like the Spanish--or like the women that have ten children and get so stout and have the troubles--" "You have retained much, Señora," exclaimed Talbot, blundering over the first compliment he he had paid her in twenty years. She smiled placidly and moved her head gently; the word "shake" could never apply to any of her movements. "I have the mirror--and the picture. And I no mind, Don Juan. When the woman bury the six children, no care si she grow old. The more soon grow old the more soon die and see the little ones--am always very fond of Enrique also," she added, "but when am young love more. He is very good man always, but he grow old like myself and very fat. Only you are improve, my friend. That one reason why always I am so glad to see you. Remind me of that time when all are young and happy."