A dark-eyed, buxom woman came hurrying out to meet them with many expressions of welcome, and a timid little handmaid hovered in the background, all interest to see the _Inglesas_ and their friend, Mlle. Delambre, less a person of importance. The little _fonda_ was scrupulously clean, the board floors scrubbed white, though innocent of rug or carpet, the beds were soft, the home-spun linen fresh and sweet-smelling, the white-washed walls showed no mark nor speck. The small _mirador_ faced the _plaza_, at once the center of the town and the market-place. Here, too, took place any special event, such as a comedia or a dance. Under the wide-branched tree on one side was the village fountain, whose constantly flowing stream sang a little tune in a pleasant tinkle which told of clear cold mountain sources from which the town was abundantly supplied. There was scarce a cessation of comings and goings from the fountain. Slim girls with buckets poised on their heads, old women who adjusted their circular pads carefully before lifting their water jar to its place, tiny children who carried their burdens unsteadily, but who, to imitate their elders, before filling their small pails, took up a handful of sand to scrub the vessel outside and in, that it might always be bright and shining. A fine odor of newly baked loaves came from the bakery opposite and above the tap-tap of the shoemaker upon his last arose his clear song in some weird Asturian ballad. Beyond all, against the bluest of skies, were the mountains. Patty leaned her elbows upon the railing of the _mirador_ and viewed it all. “How do you like it?” asked Paulette, coming and putting an arm around her friend. “Immensely. And you?” “It is delightful. How primitive! How rural!” “Rural indeed. See that lordly pig grunting around below there, and turkeys as I live, not to mention a host of chickens and, oh, the dogs, what a company of them. I see where those stale biscuits go, the ones we bought on our way here and couldn’t eat. Don’t you like these little balconies with the flowers swinging from them? I hope there are balconies at Juan’s house. There must be, I suppose, for all Spanish houses seem to have them.” “Where are we to hang our frocks?” “Oh, dear, where indeed? On the floor, I reckon. We’d better not unpack much, only what we shall need for a few days. Tina hopes we can leave by the end of the week. It is too bad we could not go at once to the house, but Juan says this is the best _fonda_ about and it is something of a novelty to stay here.” “What must the others be?” “I can’t imagine, though there is nothing to complain of here. I am sure it was not much better at the convent. We lack clothes presses, to be sure. They say the food is good, all oil, I suppose judging from the odors now arising.” A gentle tap at the door interrupted them. “_Á comer_,” said the little maid to whom they opened. “What do you suppose that means?” said Patty looking at Paulette.