ls of their rickety _tartanas_. _Tia_
Picores was putting on her checked shawl and chatting, in the middle of
the portico, with a group of old women of her time who went shares with
her in paying for a wagon. She still had that matter of the two girls on
her mind; and as soon as everything was ready for the drive home she
made for their stalls, and pushed and pinched till she had brought the
rivals together.

Dolores and Rosario, unable to resist the brow-beating of the terrible
woman, stood with lowered heads, as though deeply humiliated at what was
going on, but not daring to say a word. "We're going to stop a minute at
the chocolate place," _tia_ Picores directed to her teamster; and the
company of mottled shawls and dirty skirts went out of the _Pescaderia_,
the flagstones echoing to the clatter of heavy shoes. In Indian file the
women crossed the crowded market, where the last bargainings were in
progress, _tia_ Picores opening her way through the throngs with her
vigorous elbows, behind her the bevy of wrinkly-faced, yellow-eyed
veterans, then Rosario with her load of baskets,--for she always went to
and fro on foot--and finally Dolores, her ear still smarting cruelly,
but able, nevertheless, to raise a smile of pleasure when her pretty
brown face, no less winsome under the rude bandage around her head,
attracted remarks of appreciation from the men around.

They invaded and occupied the chocolate shop, where they were regular
customers. Rosario set her reeking, smelly baskets on one of the marble
tables, and the odor of stale fish mingled through the room with the
fragrance of cheap cocoa that drifted out from the adjoining kitchen.
_Tia_ Picores gave a grunt of satisfaction as she settled into a chair.
Chocolate after the day's work was her greatest comfort in life. How
well she knew that little cafe, with its striped matting on the floor,
its white tiled walls, its frosted glass windows with red curtains; in
front of the doors, ice-cream freezers in cork casings with metal
covers; the counter, then, with its jars for cookies and sweets, and
behind it the proprietor of the place sleepily brushing at the flies
with a bundle of long paper streamers fastened to a stick.

And what would they have? Same as usual, of course; a half-pint cup all
around, and a glass of lemon water apiece. This would make the fourth
chocolate that _tia_ Picores had downed that fore-noon; but the stomachs
of those tough daughters of the