She cooked some more rice and prepared the only three fishes that were left: each would have one and a half.

"They'll have good appetites," she mused, "the way is long and hungry stomachs have no heart." So she sat, he ear strained to catch every sound, listening to the lightest footfalls: strong and clear, Basilio; light and irregular, Crispin--thus she mused.

The _kalao_ called in the woods several times after the rain had ceased, but still her sons did not come.

She put the fishes inside the pot to keep them warm and went to the threshold of the hut to look toward the road.

To keep herself company, she began to sing in a low voice, a voice usually so sweet and tender that when her sons listened to her singing the _kundiman_ they wept without knowing why, but tonight it trembled and the notes were halting.