ssiped.

Nobody came. It grew four, then five, then six o'clock. 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. The little children, must be
fed."

Rosa hurried back to the counter, and gave the woman two fresh
loaves and the grandmother's message.

"Gracias!" (thanks) sobbed the young woman and hurried away.

"I hope she will not tell that we gave her bread," murmured Rosa to
herself as the usual quiet settled over the panaderia. "We can't
afford to give bread to many people."

The weeks went by, and the panaderia did not prosper very well. It
grew to be a customary thing for the thin, sick woman to come daily
for bread, and she was never refused. She said with a sensitive
eagerness that when she was well again she would work and pay all
back, and Rosa's grandmother answered "Yes," cheerily, to this
promise, though any one who looked at the poor young mother's face
could see that there was small prospect of her ever being well again
in this world. Her husband still drank.

Times grew harder and harder at the panaderia. In the midst of the
winter a heavy blow fell, for the Zanjero's wife took a fancy to
making her own bread,