rich,” said Kate.
“You are not rich, Niña?” came the singing, caressive bird-like voice: “Then, you are poor?”—this was indescribable irony.
“No, I am not poor either. I am not rich, and I am not poor,” said Kate.
“You are not rich, and you are not poor, Niña!” repeated Juana, in her bird-like voice, that covered the real bird’s endless, vindictive jeering.
For the words meant nothing to her. To her, who had nothing, could never have anything, Kate was one of that weird class, the rich. And, Kate felt, in Mexico it was a crime to be rich, or to be classed with the rich. Not even a crime, really, so much as a freak. The rich class was a freak class, like dogs with two heads or calves with five legs. To be looked upon, not with envy, but with