"The poor, sick woman asks you to forgive.

She says it was the mescal that made her husband do it." "I presume so," returned the man grimly.

"They're all thieves." But the Zanjero's wife was wiser than her husband.

She dropped into a chair and put an arm around Rosa.
"You have not told all the story yet, or else I do not understand," she said gently.

"What makes this woman so much your friend that she comes and tells your grandmother about the key ?" So the whole story came out at last--about the long, sad winter at the panaderia; the grandmother's attempts at sewing; her failing eyes; the lack of customers, yet the daily giving of bread to the poor neighbor and her three children; the trust that the Lord knew about the panaderia and its occupants.
The Zanjero's wife understood it all now.