Maggie was full of apologies for the poor service and humble surroundings. "It is the doings of miss," she whispered, in her native sibilant Mexican, when Nola found an excuse to leave Frances alone at her meal. "It doesn't matter, Maggie; you eat in the kitchen, both of us are women." "Yes, and some saints' images are made of lead, some of gold." "But they are all saints' images, Maggie." "The kitchen will be brighter from this day," Maggie declared, in the extravagant way of her race, only meaning more than usually carries in a Castilian compliment. She backed away from the table, never having it in her delicate nature to be so rude as to turn her back upon her guest, and admired Frances from a distance. The sun was reaching through a low window, moving slowly up the cloth as if stealing upon the guest to give her a good-night kiss. "Ah, miss!" sighed Maggie, her hands clasped as in adoration, "no wonder that he lives with a well in his body. He has much to live for, and that is the truth from a woman's lips." "It is worth more because of its rarity, then, Maggie," Frances said, warming over with blushes at this ingenuous praise. "Do they let you go into his room?" "The door is open to the servant," Maggie replied, with solemn nod. "It is closed to me--did you know?" "I know. Miss tells you it is orders from some captain, some general, some soldier I do not know what"--a sweeping gesture to include all soldiers, great and small and far away--"but that is a lie. It came out of her own heart. She is a traitor to friendship, as well as a thief." "Yes, I believed that from the beginning, Maggie." "This house of deceit is not a place for me, for even servant that I am, I am a true servant. But I will not lie for a liar, nor be traitor for one who deceives a friend. I shall go from here. Perhaps when you are married to Mr. Macdonald you will have room in your kitchen for me?" "We must not build on shadows, Maggie." "And there is that Alvino, a cunning man in a garden. You should see how he charms the flowers and vegetables--but you have seen, it is his work here, all this is his work." "If there is ever a home of my own--if it ever comes to that happiness--" "God hasten the day!" "Then there will be room for both of you, Maggie." Frances rose from the table, and stood looking though the window where the sun's friendly hand had reached in to caress her a few minutes gone. There was no gleam of it now, only a dull redness on the horizon where it had fallen out of sight, the red of iron cooling upon the anvil. "In four weeks he will be able to kneel at the altar with you," said Maggie, making a clatter with the stove lids in her excitement, "and in youth that is only a day. And I have a drawn piece of fine linen, as white as your bosom, that you must wear over your heart on that day. It will bring you peace, far it was made by a holy sister and it has been blessed by the bishop at Guadalupe."