Adrian Manuel, the longed for father, lay a prisoner between hospital walls, and in imminent danger of never leaving them alive. He was so critically ill that he was oblivious to all that went on about him, nor were the advertising columns of a newspaper of any interest to the quiet nurse who attended him; and who, because of his hazardous condition, allowed no less experienced person to care for him.
This was the reason of his mysterious journey “to the north.” The knowledge of his serious malady had come to him with startling suddenness and he had made instant preparation to place himself under the best surgical treatment. He would not sadden his happy little ones by his own forebodings and had ridden bravely away with a gay “Adios!” to meet his fate. Should he not return, the sealed letter provided for everything, and especially, that the twins were then to be taken to Mrs. Sinclair, who thus would be left their natural and only guardian.
So, when the two weeks expired and the Burnhams could no longer delay departure they decided that the young Manuels must accompany them. The new station-master was a rough old miner, unmarried, and though efficient in the duties he assumed, he liked to keep a lot of such men as himself about him. To leave Carlota in such an establishment, even on the now fading chance of her father’s claiming her, seemed impossible to Mrs. Burnham.
But the child, herself, strenuously protested against this departure. Captain Sherman’s lecture upon “Obedience” had vividly impressed her.
“He said to stay was right. I’d made trouble enough not obediencing before and I must. He was a soldier—he knew. We must not go away from this straight railroad track, not at all. We can live at Leopard with Dennis, if we can’t live with the new folks.”
Whereat that fine fellow answered without delay:
“Sure, me purty colleen, ’tis meself ’d be proud to have the carin’ of ye, so it would. More by token ye’re a born lady, so ye be. But, faith, if the family’s going to dig gold out of the mountains beyant, Dennis Fogarty’s the man must have a fist in that same. Och! It’s the truth I am speakin’.”
Mr. Burnham clinched the argument, saying:
“That cuts your last plank from under you, my dear. Never mind. I shall leave directions what is to be done when you are sent for and how we may be followed. We start to-morrow morning, at sunrise.”
At the hour they named they did so. A canvas-covered wagon containing a camper’s outfit and drawn by four old—therefore experienced—horses, left the little station platform for a “Castle in Spain.” Yet, despite Letitia Burnham’s feeling that it might prove only that, she was cheerful over the departure, seeing her husband happy at resuming what he called “the business of his life,” and that he now believed would be successful. He had often, on similar settings-out, been equally sanguine, but the good wife was not one to remind him of that. Besides, as she confided to Carlota: