She heard someone in the bathroom and prayed that it was the landlady. Perhaps it was still not too late for Ron to move the motorcycle. She slipped into her cotton housecoat and left her room through the hall door, first stopping in front of her mirror to wipe away the moist evidences of her agitation and apply a light sprinkling of powder to her face.

Sra. Vargas was standing by the open door, looking out through the patio to the street. Marquita's heart convulsed. It was too late! The landlady turned as she heard Marquita's footsteps.

"Mira! Again it is left out here! It is too much . . . what will the neighbors think!"

Then Ron's door opened and Ron came out and stood there, looking at them, boyish and sleepy-eyed in her pajamas.

"Is something the matter?" she asked. The Señora Vargas walked toward her, pointing at the front door, her words tumbling over each other. Marquita delayed her progress, laying a soothing hand on her arm.

"I will tell her," she said. "Ron, it is the motorcycle. You left it outside the house again."

Ron's very blue eyes, her one feminine beauty, widened. "Is that what all the fuss is about?" She looked at Marquita, not at the Señora.

"You know how she is about this. Ron, Ron . . . why did you?"

"Oh, for Pete's sake! I was just too tired to put it away

The landlady, temporarily calmed, glanced from one to the other, waiting for Marquita to translate Ron's words.

"But she is really angry this time," Marquita said.

"Let her be." Ron walked past them into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator.

"What did she say?" demanded Sra. Vargas.

"She said some automobile blocked the entrance to the driveway last night, so please excuse her," Marquita lied.

The señora went into another tirade and Ron came out of the kitchen, her face flushed and angry.

"Look," she said to Marquita. "You tell her that I'm sick and tired of her rules and regulations. This is like being in prison. Tell her that today I will look for another place

"No, Ron . . . please. It will be all right," Marquita said, feeling suddenly ill. "I'm sorry!" Ron went back into her room, and Marquita, unable to say more, turned and went back into hers, leaving the landlady to her mutterings. The door closed behind her, Marquita dropped to her knees beside her bed. "Father, Dear Father in heaven, do not let this happen," she prayed. This morning in church she had asked Him to take care of Ron. "I need your help, Father, being unable to do it alone." In her small way, she did whatever she could. Someone so far away from her own home as Ron was, and so careless of her own welfare, needed to be looked after.

The Good Lord Himself had directed Ron to this house . . . of this Marquita was certain. It was dreadful to think of what might have become of her otherwise. The girl never remembered to eat, and of course, she drank too much, a situation over which Marquita prayed constantly. It was good to have someone to cook for again. Since Madre died ten years ago there had been no one to appreciate her artistry with food, no one for her to care for, really. Even Ron, for the big, tall girl she was, ate far too little . . . but at least she sat