“The señor has been very kind,” the woman’s gratitude resembled a faithful dog’s.
“Oh, it was nothing.” His lids were drooping. At five the next morning!
“The señor, he is lonely?”
“Lonely!” He laughed in her puzzled face. Great Scott, he was dying for sleep! He did not catch her drift.
“The señor, he is so kind, and he is lonely. He has no one to sew for him, to mend his clothes, to keep his tent. I am so grateful to the señor.”
Had she misunderstood his suggestions about a divorce? Rickard sat up.
“You are doing very well for me. Thank you. And now, good night, señora. I’m up early in the morning.”
There was something on her mind. She walked toward the entrance of the tent-house, but turned back.
“I have a sister, señor, who would be good to you, mend your clothes, when I am gone. The señor will be lonely, then, is it not so? She is grown now, almost fifteen. She is muy sympatica, can sew, and can cook—”
“Oh, lord—” cried Rickard.