Once more Aunt Anastacia rolled her
large figure through Eulogia’s doorway and handed
her a letter.
“From Don Pablo Ignestria, my
baby,” she said. “Oh, what a man!
what a caballero! And so smart. He waited
an hour by the creek in the mission gardens until
he saw thy mother go out, and then he brought the note
to me. He begged to see thee, but I dared not
grant that, niñita, for thy mother will be back in
ten minutes.”
“Go downstairs and keep my mother
there,” commanded Eulogia, and Aunt Anastacia
rolled off, whilst her niece with unwonted nervousness
opened the letter.
“Sweet of my soul! Day-star
of my life! I dare not speak to thee of love
because, strong man as I am, still am I a coward before
those mocking eyes. Therefore if thou laugh the
first time thou readest that I love thee, I shall
not see it, and the second time thou mayest be more
kind. Beautiful and idolized Eulogia, men have
loved thee, but never will be cast at thy little feet
a heart stronger or truer than mine. Ay, dueño
adorada, I love thee! Without hope? No!
I believe that thou lovest me, thou cold little one,
although thou dost not like to think that the heart
thou hast sealed can open to let love in. But,
Eulogia! Star of my eyes! I love thee so
I will break that heart in pieces, and give thee another
so soft and warm that it will beat all through the
old house to which I will take thee. For thou
wilt come to me, thou little coquette? Thou wilt
write to me to come back and stand with thee in the
mission while the good padre asks the saints to bless
us? Eulogia, thou hast sworn thou wilt write
to no man, but thou wilt write to me, my little one.
Thou wilt not break the heart that lives in thine.
“I kiss thy little feet.
I kiss thy tiny hands. I kiss—ay, Eulogia!
Adios! Adios!
“PABLO.”
Eulogia could not resist that letter.
Her scruples vanished, and, after an entire day of
agonized composition, she sent these lines:—
“You can come back to San Luis Obispo.
“EULOGIA AMATA FRANCISCA GUADALUPE CARILLO.”