“Mamma is very fond of you,” he repeated. “You don’t seem to believe me. Silly girl! why, she herself scolded me because I treated you—well—a little coldly at first. She told me you were unhappy on that account.”
Esclavita lowered her eyes, doubtless lest they should betray her thoughts and forebodings regarding the future.
“See,” said Rogelio, softly, “if you knew how well I feel with you here beside me! I even think I am beginning to grow sleepy, and that I shall have no more bad dreams or such nonsense. I think I shall sleep as sound as a patriarch; but for that you must have the good nature to stay there at my feet. If you go away I shall waken up again.”
“I won’t go away!” the girl answered with decision. “Not with pincers would they be able to pull me away from here.”
“Well, then, I shall go to sleep. Ah, how pleasant!”
Tasting already the first sweet sip of that cup of oblivion which sleep, when it follows some great moral or physical shock, presents to our lips, Rogelio spoke once more:
“Suriña?”
“Well?”
“Do you care for me?”
He only half-heard her answer, and for this reason he was never quite certain that it was this—so romantic and unsuited to a country girl: