“I don’t know.”
“What’s that? I have come a long, long distance on purpose to see, and talk with him. I’ve written him a score of letters without avail, so now I’ll try what word of mouth will do,” answered the elder gentleman, with considerable sharpness.
“When he comes home he’ll be glad to talk with you. He always likes to talk with strangers and makes them welcome. I forgot that when I lost my temper. I beg your pardon, Señor.”
“Don’t mention it, lad. But allow me to say that, upon my word, you’re the queerest little chap I ever met. Indian clothes, Spanish graces, and Yankee bluntness. So this is Refugio, at last! Hmm, hmm. Well, well, well! Where is the house!”
“Yonder, Señor, among the palms and olives that partly hide it. There is a rise of ground that way, too. Would you like to go there now?” asked Carlos, once more the courteous small host his father would have approved.
“Presently, thank you. But I find this rest and shade delightful. My! It’s a hot country! Sit down on the grass here and tell me all you know about Refugio.”
Both children laughed aloud at that, Carlos replying:
“It would take till nightfall! Why, I could talk about our dear Refugio ‘forever and a day’ and not have done. You see, Señor, it’s such a very old place. My father says it is one of the most ancient landmarks. A landmark is, if you don’t know—I didn’t—one of the boundaries of a country or its history. Old Refugio is both.”
The boy was as eager to discuss this beloved subject as the newcomers were to listen, but Carlota quietly interposed:
“If brother once begins to talk about Refugio and the things which have happened here he won’t know how to stop. Yet my father says that travelers are always hungry when they get here, we live so far from any other rancho. So, if you won’t go to the house yet, will you have some of our cakes here?”