"Well, then—you tell him, Gilbert," the mother said, turning to her husband.
"There could be only one name in all the world for that youngster," Gilbert said, and put his hand affectionately on his old friend's shoulder. "You ought to know it as well as I. Of course his name is—Pancho!"
The smile that came over the Mexican's face was beautiful to see. And was that the suggestion of a tear in his eye?
Long and long, and while everybody in the room remained perfectly still, he looked at the baby, whose tiny hands bobbed up and down—a fat, healthy youngster, fit as a fiddle, laughing, squirming, happy.
"For me you name him?" Lopez finally got out. "Oh, too good you are to me. Pancho! my own leetle boy! Pancho! 'Some' name, what you say, eh?"
And he pinched the child's cheek, tenderly as his mother would have done.
"And here's mine!" Angela, not to be outdone, piped up, presenting her child, also in her arms, to the delirious bandit.
"An' what heez name?"
"It ain't a he—it's a she, I told you!" Angela corrected.