the overseer, who at the time was living on one of the
plantations.

Once the message was on its way, Isabel fell into a condition
bordering upon panic, and was half minded to countermand her
order. She spent an evening of suspense, and a miserable night.
This last, however, was nothing unusual with her; she was
accustomed to unpleasant dreams, and she was not surprised when
old familiar shapes came to harass her. Nor, in view of her
somnambulistic vagaries, was she greatly concerned to find, when
she woke in the morning, that her slippers were stained and that
her skirt was bedraggled with dew and filled with burs.

Scarcely a month passed that she did not walk in her sleep.

Cueto was plainly curious to learn why he had been sent for, but
since he asked no questions, his employer was forced to open the
subject herself. Several times he led up to it unsuccessfully;
then she took the plunge. Through dry, white lips she began:

"My dear Pancho, times are hard. The plantations are failing, and
so--" Pancho Cueto's eyes were set close to his nose, his face was
long and thin and harsh; he regarded the speaker with such a
sinister, unblinking stare that she could scarcely finish: "--and
so I--can no longer afford to retain you as administrador."

"Times will improve," he said.

"Impossible! This war threatens to bring utter ruin; and now that
Esteban and Rosa are home they spend money like water. I groan