"I hear that the peons are quitting, are in revolt," she said, when they were alone in the dining room. "My people whisper. I pick up remarks." "What do you hear? Is it about Palma Sola?" "Other haciendas ... threats, anger, disobedience. It's as you've said: they're turning against us. I'm afraid." "There won't be trouble here," he said. "Father has so many enemies, we'll have trouble at Petaca, if it comes anywhere. Three-quarters of our land was Indian property years ago." "So was mine," she said. "If the peasants revolt, we must give in or fight. We have no choice." "Not a pleasant prospect," she said. "It hasn't been pleasant, sweating it out in the mines, sweating it out in the sugar-cane fields, up at dawn, down at dark, always in debt...." He reached for his pipe but did not fill it. "I don't defend myself against father's accusation of political idealism, weakness, call it whatever you want. I'm groping. But I can see how the people suffer ... in almost every hacienda. Díaz wasn't right for us!" "I hear of your changes at Petaca. People are amazed at what you've accomplished." "I like to help. I feed my people. If they're sick they get care. I let them go to Colima to buy things. I've canceled debts in the tienda de raya books. I talk over problems. Many places could do that ... but we have so much to live down at Petaca. I'm glad there never were beatings and killings here." When he returned to Petaca he found a letter from Angelina, gay and trivial. It heartened him until he reached the final paragraph: "I think Mona is really my dog, not Lucienne's. I think she won't always stay at Palma Sola but will come to me, changing so prettily, her glass bones shining...." What did Angelina mean. "Glass bones shining?" In his easy chair, in the living room, he reread her letter; the last paragraph continued to bewilder him. He thought of showing the letter to Gabriel, but dismissed the idea and crumpled the sheet and tossed it into the fireplace. Holding out his hands to the blaze, he leaned his elbows on his knees. He did not need a confidant but needed to be alone. Wind puffed across the house, making a wintry sound. Raul felt disappointed when Father Gabriel appeared, rolling Fernando in his wheelchair. _Glass bones shining_, Raul thought, seeing that his father was mere bones, sunken eyes, perhaps accented by his new glasses. Fernando stretched out his bony fingers toward the fire and sighed. "The cold spell will help the corn," he said, his voice thin. Raul could think of nothing to say. "Nothing like a fireplace," said Gabriel, sitting down; he was tired, still fighting off his malaria; he, too, was hunting for thoughts. "Raul, I see you've had the Swiss clock repaired. I've always liked it." "I brought it back from the jeweler's last week," Raul said. All three eyed the clock on the mantel, a white marble clock veined with black, thin and tall.