“There, don’t! Don’t, girlie. Our father wouldn’t like it if he should come home now, this minute, and find you crying.”
The words were magic. Carlota sprang to her feet and earnestly peered into the distance, crying:
“Is he? Do you see him, brother? Do you?”
Carlos, also, leaped up and threw his arm about her waist:
“I didn’t say that, did I? I only said ‘if.’”
“I don’t like ‘ifs,’” sobbed Carlota.
“Oh, Carlota, don’t cry. You shall not. If you do I will go away myself, to the northwest, to find my father.”
“Oh! let’s!”
“I said ‘I.’ Not you. Girls never go anywhere, because they always cry. If it hadn’t been for that my father might have taken me with him. You see, he couldn’t take you, on account of it; and he couldn’t leave you at home with only Marta and the men, for then—that would make more tears. So I had to stay to take care of you, and I do think, if I were a girl, the very first thing I would do—I wouldn’t cry. Criers never have real good times, I guess.”
This was logic, and from Carlos, whom Carlota idolized only less than their absent father, most convincing. She winked very fast and drew her sleeve across her eyes, to dry the drops which would not be shaken off.