the hot, still November sun, looking with anger at the hedge of jasmine, with its pure white flowers, and its sere, withered flowers, and its pinkish buds among the dark leaves. Where had she heard something about jasmine? “And the jasmine flowers between us!”
Oh! how tired she was of all that!
Teresa came down the garden slope.
“You are still sitting here?” she exclaimed.
“Where else should I be?” Kate answered.
“I don’t know.—Ramón has gone to Sayula, to see the Jefe. He wouldn’t wait for us, to come with us in the boat.”
“I suppose he was in a hurry,” said Kate.
“How fine these Noche Buenas are!” said Teresa looking at the brilliant spread of the red poinsettias.
“They are your Christmas flower, aren’t they?” said Kate.
“Yes—the flowers of