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Chinita in some consternation sank on her knees, her green skirt rising in folds around her, reminding Chata irresistibly of a huge butterfly which she had that very morning seen settle upon a verdant pomegranate bush. How she longed to extinguish Chinita’s glories as she had done those of the insect, by a cast of her reboso. There was no malice in her thought, though perhaps a trifle of envy, for she too loved brilliant colors. She could not restrain a titter as she thought what Chinita’s vexation would be; and with a face glowing with anger and eyes filled with reproach, Pedro’s foster-child sailed haughtily past the sisters while the untrained choir were singing hymns of rejoicing, with that inimitable undertone of pathos natural in the voices of the Aztecs, and the censers of incense were still swinging, and left the church,—longing to rush back and to trample under foot the flowers she had so joyously gathered, longing to tear off the fine clothes and adornments she had so proudly donned. She pushed angrily past a peasant boy in tattered cotton garments and coarse sombrero of woven grass, who was the slave of her caprices, who had toiled in her service all day and upon whom she had smiled when she entered the church, yet whom she now thrust aside in rage as she left it, with a “Out of my way, stupid! What art thou staring at? Thou art like blind Tomas, with his eyes open all day long, yet seeing nothing.”