“Brother, aren’t you coming back here?”
“No, sister. I’ve said good-by and now I want to go. I’m getting my things in the schoolroom.”
Carlota would have liked to linger, but now joined her brother in the pretty glen beside the spring; and, while he wound his riata and thrust his hammer and knife into his sash, she secured the basket which old Marta had given them with their luncheon. Little of that was now left; only a few scattered cakes, which she carefully gathered again, thinking they would answer very well for supper, in case they did not arrive at “anywhere” by that time. She also slung her botany-box across her shoulders, which made Carlos inquire:
“Why are you taking that? If we do get things we can’t bring them home to the garden.”
“Well, you’re taking your hammer. If you can crack stones I can pick flowers. You know they’ll keep a week in my box, and we ought to be home long before that. If—we ever come at all!”
“We must first go before we can come. Where shall it be?”
“I know. I’ve thought it out.”
“Where, then, Carlota? Quick! Oh! how the wind blows!”
“To find our father.”
“We don’t know where he went.”