“Who could help it? Witnessing how love has transformed this old adobe ruin into such a comfortable, even luxurious, home.”
Mr. Disbrow snorted in contempt. Then pointed to the single candle burning in its silver stick, saying:
“There’s your ‘luxury’! Now sit down in that rickety old chair and write to Mrs. Sinclair. It must be done sometime.”
Thankful for any diversion, Mr. Rupert promptly obeyed, and the letter was barely finished when Miguel stumbled in, so weary and heart-heavy that he seemed older than the ancient Guadalupo. There had been no white hairs on the major-domo’s black head till within these last few, terrible days, and his once merry eyes were dull and lifeless.
“Miguel, you must rest. You are the head and front of all this search, and you dare not fail,” pleaded the young lawyer, earnestly.
“I have failed,” hopelessly assented this once fiery fellow.
He no longer resented the presence of these strangers, these “enemies,” at Refugio. They had done their worst and by his own stupidity, his misguided zeal, he had aided and abetted the ruin they had wrought. He accused himself of being the lost children’s murderer, and was so continually engrossed by such self-reproaches that he was almost crazed. Indeed, he sometimes prayed that he might become wholly so for then he would forget his misery.
“Don’t say ‘failed,’ Miguel. I believe, I do believe, those children will be found, safe and well,” cried the other, unable to endure the sight of the manager’s anguish.
“So do I. At—the Resurrection.”
“Long before that. Upon this earth which they made lovely by their presence. Come. Take heart again. Pluck up your faith and courage.”