Finally the
panaderia door opened, and a woman entered. Rosa sprang up. Here was
a customer, at last!
But the woman only came to the counter, and stood still. She was
young, very thin and ill, evidently, and her eyes had tears in their
depths. Under the black shawl that was over the newcomer's head Rosa
spied a dark mark, as of a bruise, on the forehead. The young woman
tried to speak.
"I have three little children," she said. "I am sick. I cannot work,
and their father drinks mescal--always mescal. I have no money. Will
you give me a little bread? I am no beggar, but my babies are so
hungry!"
Rosa knew how much harm mescal (a kind of intoxicating drink made
from the maguey or Mexican aloe) did among the neighbors. She did
not doubt the woman's tale; only it was disappointing, when one
thought a real customer had at last come to the panaderia, to find
that it was not so. But the girl nodded sympathetically at the
conclusion of the young woman's appeal.
"I will speak to grandmother," she promised.
She found her grandmother lying down still, but half awake, and
explained to her the situation.
"Yes, yes," returned the grandmother, her wrinkled face full of
sympathy. "Give her the bread. Has not the Lord told us to care for
the poor? He would not be pleased if we sent her away without bread.
Tell the poor woman to come again.
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