waist and she looked so sweet in it— just like a little woman.
“Pingo d’Agua had already learned
how to season a dish when she wore
this here with the red rings against a
white background. I tell you this be-
cause she was wearing the dress when
she overturned a pot and scalded her
hands.
“This red dress goes back to her
tenth year, when she took very sick
with the measles. The days and nights
I spent at her bedside, telling her
stories! And how she liked the one
about the cat who was so fond of sit-
ting near the fire!"
The aged woman wiped away a tear
with the quilt and then sank into sil-
ence.
“And how about this one?” I asked, pointing to a yellow patch and trying to revive her spirits.
The grandmother paused sadly for A moment in thought. Then:
“That’s a new piece. She was fif-
teen when she wore it for the first time
at a party over at Labrego’s. I don't
like it. It seems to me that the trouble
begins with it. It was a very pretty
dress, very tightly fitted. I believe it
was the reason for Labreguinho’s fall-
ing in love with the poor thing. I
know all about it now. At that time,
however, I had no suspicions. . .”
“This one,” I said, pretending to remember, “is the one she wore when I was last here.”
She smiled.
“You're wrong. Do you want to see which it was? This one with the crimson dots. Take a good look at it.”
“You’re right, you’re right,” I lied. “Now I recollect. That’s the very one. And this last patch?”
There was a painful pause, then the
old woman shook her head and stam-
mered:
“That’s the one of the misfortune. It’s the last one I made for her. She ran away in it . . . and killed me.”
She fell silent, trembling as the tears streamed down her face.
I, too, was unable to speak, op-
pressed by a burden in my heart.
There we sat, both of us, without stirring, our eyes fixed upon the quilt. At last she broke the silence:
“It was to be my wedding present. The Lord did not wish it. Now it will be my shroud. I’ve already asked them to bury me in it. . .”
Carefully she replaced the quilt in the box, wrapping it in a sigh.
A month later she died. I learned
that they had not fulfilled her last
wish. Who cares about the last re-
quest of an old, unhappy country
woman? Mere nonsense. . .
