more water. Will our roses die then, Juan?"
"No, they shall never die," he declared. "We'll take some slips from them and plant them at our home—maybe Padre Ignacio will give us one of the roots of these very plants."
Gertrudis reached and drew a trailing spray to her, and pressed the blossoms against her cheek.
"Dear roses!" she said.
"So much must perish here when the water is cut off," said Juan, looking around the court, bordered by orange and lemon trees, with apricot and peach standing tall among them.
"Dear trees of San Fernando!" she sighed.
Then talk of the building again, which was more pleasant than the thought of withering, stricken roses and the pathos of dying trees. Youth is happiest when it is building, and planning building that may never take form beneath its hands. Building is the quickening leaven, it is the very essence of life. There are old men who believe that as long as they can build they will not die.
"We must get ready for dinner," she said at last.
"Yes, there's the sun's last arrow on the hill yonder."
She touched his hand, turning her face to him quickly, in a strange expression of questioning, of hesitant waiting.
"Juan?"
"Tula." He expressed readiness, eagerness, to meet her unspoken desire.
