This morning she showed the traces of a sleepless night and an
aching heart as she walked down Marais Street. Across wide St.
Rocque Avenue she hastened. "Two blocks to the river and one
below--" she repeated to herself breathlessly. Then she stood on
the corner gazing about her, until with a final summoning of a
desperate courage she dived through a small wicket gate into a
garden of weed-choked flowers.
There was a hoarse, rusty little bell on the gate that gave
querulous tongue as she pushed it open. The house that sat back
in the yard was little and old and weather-beaten. Its one-story
frame had once been painted, but that was a memory remote and
traditional. A straggling morning-glory strove to conceal its
time-ravaged face. The little walk of broken bits of brick was
reddened carefully, and the one little step was scrupulously
yellow-washed, which denoted that the occupants were cleanly as
well as religious.
Manuela's timid knock was answered by a harsh "Entrez."
It was a small sombre room within, with a bare yellow-washed
floor and ragged curtains at the little window. In a corner was
a diminutive altar draped with threadbare lace. The red glow of
the taper lighted a cheap print of St. Joseph and a brazen
crucifix. The human element in the room was furnished by a
little, wizened yellow woman, who, black-robed, turbaned, and
stern, sat before an uncertain table whereon were greasy cards.
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