after day, had thought the first thing in the morning to see that they
were there, regarding them as solicitously in the rare rainy weather as
his old mother regarded her few mongrel chicks. Twenty full years, and
yet Ignacio Chavez was not more than thirty years old, or thirty-five,
perhaps. He did not know, no one cared.

He was on his way to attack with his bare brown hands some of the weeds
which were spilling over into the walk which led through the garden and
to the priest's house. As a matter of fact he had awakened with this
purpose in mind, had gone his lazy way all day fully purposing to give
it his attention, and had at last arrived upon the scene. The front
gate had finally broken, the upper hinge worn out; Ignacio carefully
set the ramshackly wooden affair back against the fence, thinking how
one of these days he would repair it. Then he went between the bigger
pear-tree and the _lluvia de oro_ which his own hands had planted
here, and stood with legs well apart considering the three bells upon
the easterly arch.

"_Que hay, amigos_?" he greeted them. "Do you know what I am going to
do for you some fine day? I will build a little roof over you that
runs down both ways to shut out the water when it rains. It will make
you hoarse, too much wet."

That was one of the few dreams of Ignacio's life; one day he was going
to make a little roof over each arch. But to-day he merely regarded
affectionately the Captain . . . that was the biggest of the
bells . . . the Dancer, second in size, and Lolita, the smallest upon
this arch. Then he sighed and turned toward the other arch across the
garden to see how it was with the Little One, La Golondrina, and
Ignacio Chavez. For it was only fair that at least one of the six