Rosa and her brother Joseph thought the Zanjero a great man, and stood much in awe of the irrigation laws concerning stealing water, or raising a gate to waste water, or giving water to persons outside the district.
The two bread-carriers went through the orange orchard, which was not being irrigated at this hour, for the Zanjero was particular himself to keep the hour that he paid for, as other men should be.
Up to the Zanjero's house Rosa now carried the bread, and his wife herself paid for it.

Rosa tied the coins carefully in one corner of the black shawl that she wore over her head.
"Rosa," anticipated Joseph aloud, as they went away through the orange orchard again, "when I am grown up, I shall be a Zanjero, and we will not have to keep the panaderia!" But Rosa looked unbelieving.

"It is not granted every man to be the Zanjero," returned she gravely, "and I love the panaderia." It was true.

She did love it, even to the castor-oil plants that grew like weeds in neglected places in the yard, and down to the south wall that was hung with a thick veil of red peppers that her grandmother was drying in the sun.

It was only because the panaderia had not enough customers that Rosa looked so grave to-day.