"Fourdth of Yuly! how mean you?"
"Oh, fireworks and explosions! but that little white funnel of steam—well, it's a disappointment!"
"You vill zee dthree volcano near Guatemala; dthey air dthe 'spirits' of dthe place—call in Eenglish 'Air,' 'Fire' and 'Vater.' Zee on dthis leedle coin dthey haf all dthree mountains on dthe back."
"Why, what's the matter with your hands?" I say, taking the coin.
"All dthose burrs on your dress make bleed," he says, looking a bit ruefully at his finger-tips, sore and red, and one stained a little where some obstinate briar or needle has drawn the blood.
"Oh! what a shame!" I take the shapely hand in mine and look compassionately at the hurt fingers.
"I feel it not, Blanca, vhen you hold it so!"
I drop the hand, instinctively steeling myself against all show of sympathy with this boyish sentimentalism.
"It should teach you a lesson. You take too much care of your hands; they are whiter and softer than most women's—such hands are good for nothing."
"I vill show you you can be meestake." His face is quite changed, and there's something dimly threatening in the deep eyes.