“But those indulgences are earned by the servants and not by you, Sister Sipa,” objected Rufa.
“And my cups and plates, who pays for them? The servants are glad to pay for them in that way and it suits me also. I never resort to blows, only sometimes a pinch, or a whack on the head.”
“I’m going to do as you do!” “I’ll do the same!” “And I!” exclaimed the women.
“But suppose the plate is only broken into two or three pieces, then you earn very few,” observed the obstinate Rufa.
“Abá!” answered old Sipa. “I make them recite the prayers anyhow. Then I glue the pieces together again and so lose nothing.”
Sister Rufa had no more objections left.
“Allow me to ask about a doubt of mine,” said young Juana timidly. “You ladies understand so well these matters of heaven, purgatory, and hell, while I confess that I’m ignorant. Often I find in the novenas and other books this direction: three paternosters, three Ave Marias, and three Gloria Patris—”
“Yes, well?”
“Now I want to know how they should be recited: whether three paternosters in succession, three Ave Marias in succession, and three Gloria Patris in succession; or a paternoster, an Ave Maria, and a Gloria Patri together, three times?”
“This way: a paternoster three times—”
“Pardon me, Sister Sipa,” interrupted Rufa, “they must be recited in the other way. You mustn’t mix up males and females. The paternosters are males, the Ave Marias are females, and the Gloria Patris are the children.”
“Eh? Excuse me, Sister Rufa: paternoster, Ave Maria, and Gloria are like rice, meat, and sauce—a mouthful for the saints—”
“You’re wrong! You’ll see, for you who pray that way will never get what you ask for.”
“And you who pray the other way won’t get anything from your novenas,” replied old Sipa.
“Who won’t?” asked Rufa, rising. “A short time ago I lost a little pig, I prayed to St. Anthony and found it, and then I sold it for a good price. Abá!”
“Yes? Then that’s why one of your neighbors was saying that you sold a pig of hers.”
“Who? The shameless one! Perhaps I’m like you—”
Here the expert had to interfere to restore peace, for no one was thinking any more about paternosters—the talk was all about pigs. “Come, come, there mustn’t be any quarrel over a pig, Sisters! The Holy Scriptures give us an example to follow. The heretics and Protestants didn’t quarrel with Our Lord for driving into the water a herd of swine that belonged to them, and we that are Christians and besides, Brethren of the Holy Rosary, shall we have hard words on account of a little pig! What would our rivals, the Tertiary Brethren, say?”
All became silent before such wisdom, at the same time fearing what the Tertiary Brethren might say. The expert, well satisfied with such acquiescence, changed his tone and continued: “Soon the curate will send for us. We must tell him which preacher we’ve chosen of the three that he suggested yesterday, whether Padre Dámaso, Padre Martin, or the coadjutor. I don’t know whether the Tertiary Brethren have yet made any choice, so we must decide.”
“The coadjutor,” murmured Juana timidly.
“Ahem! The coadjutor doesn’t know how to preach,” declared Sipa. “Padre Martin is better.”
“Padre Martin!” exclaimed another disdainfully. “He hasn’t any voice. Padre Dámaso would be better.”
“That’s right!” cried Rufa. “Padre Dámaso surely does know how to preach! He looks like a comedian!”
“But we don’t understand him,” murmured Juana.
“Because he’s very deep! And as he preaches well—”
This speech was interrupted by the arrival of Sisa, who was carrying a basket on her head. She saluted the Sisters and went on up the stairway.
“She’s going in! Let’s go in too!” they exclaimed. Sisa felt her heart beating violently as she ascended the stairs. She did not know just what to say to the padre to placate his wrath or what reasons she could advance in defense of her son. That morning at the first flush of dawn she had gone into her garden to pick the choicest vegetables, which she placed in a basket among banana-leaves and flowers; then she had looked along the bank of the river for the pakó which she knew the curate liked for salads. Putting on her best clothes and without awakening her son, she had set out for the town with the basket on her head. As she went up the stairway she tried to make as little noise as possible and listened attentively in the hope that she might hear a fresh, childish voice, so well known to her. But she heard nothing nor did she meet anyone as she made her way to the kitchen. There she looked into all the corners. The servants and sacristans received her coldly, scarcely acknowledging her greeting.
“Where can I put these vegetables?” she asked, not taking any offense at their coldness.
“There, anywhere!” growled the cook, hardly looking at her as he busied himself in picking the feathers from a capon.
With great care Sisa arranged the vegetables and the salad leaves on the table, placing the flowers above them. Smiling, she then addressed one of the servants, who seemed to be more approachable than the cook: “May I speak with the padre?”
“He’s sick,” was the whispered answer.
“And Crispín? Do you know if he is in the sacristy?” The servant looked surprised and wrinkled his eyebrows. “Crispín? Isn’t he at your house? Do you mean to deny it?”
“Basilio is at home, but Crispín stayed here,” answered Sisa, “and I want to see him.”
“Yes, he stayed, but afterwards he ran away, after stealing a lot of things. Early this morning the curate ordered me to go and
