pressing without saying, "May I do something for you?" If I were sick, Little John would take her place on the floor by the bedside, hold my hands, stroking them tenderly, bathe my brow and feet, murmuring in pathetic tones, "Mi pobre Señora!" ("My poor lady or madame"), which finally died away on half-parted lips, with "Pobrecita!" ("Poor little thing!")
I was curious about her family ties, and asked her of her people, a hundred miles away. "Have you a father and mother?" said I one day. The little form swayed back and forth. She made a low wail—the most pitiful heart-cry—a smothered pent-up sob, laden with
A STREET SCENE.
all the griefs of Little John's orphaned life. With tearful eyes and bowed head, clasping my hands, she wailed out again and again, "Muertos!" ("Dead!") "No tengo mas que mi marido!" ("I have only my husband"). The poor little creature's story was told.
In consideration of my many difficulties in this line, I was glad to give them employment, when, according to custom, they solicited a portion of their wages in advance. Having received it, the wife, ignoring her own great needs, bought material for clothing for her husband. She borrowed my scissors; and I, curious to see how she would manage the cutting, went to her room to note the process.
As thought Pancho about "fingers having been made before knives
