"Will you assist me, Don Juan? Padre Ignacio sent me for roses to refresh the breakfast table."
Then if Doña Magdalena's voice was so gentle, so friendly and so sweet, she might speak on by the hour, even to chide and condemn. Tula, white as a white rose she had come to gather, stood beside the fountain, a basket in her hand.
"How many do you require?" Juan asked, taking the little bright shears out of her hand, the same, indeed, that she had worn that morning hung about her neck like a crucifix.
"Wait, Don Juan—the braid!"
She took it from round her neck and tossed it playfully over his head.
"I have caught you now, Don Juan!" she laughed. "You are my apprentice to the shears."
"Bind me to the trade," he supplicated; "make it a long apprenticeship."
"They should be sheep shears then," said she. "But why would you have the apprenticeship long, Don Juan?"
"How many roses do you require?" he asked, his hand on the bramble that grew thicker than a strong man's arm.
"As many as the basket will hold, Don Juan."
Juan stood on the bench to reach the choice blossoms high on the trellis, Gertrudis holding the basket, the moonlight on her lifted face. The shadow in her cheek was deeper here than by the light of day; it seemed as if many hopes had departed out of her life, and few had come to abide.
