“I—I won’t cry any more, brother; that is, not where anybody can see me.”
“Can’t you manage not to do it at all. It’s so dreadfully silly. It doesn’t bring father back; does it?”
“No—o,” assented the other, with a catch in her voice.
“Nor—Oh! brother! If you won’t, you won’t, so that’s a dear, and don’t let’s talk any more about it. One—two—three! Who is first at the corral shall have first ride on Benoni!”
Now, Carlos was an honorable boy, if a rather lazy and pompous one, so he waited until his sister had placed her feet exactly alongside his own, on that convenient lime-line, before he repeated:
“One—two—three! Off!”
Like arrows they sped across the plain, past the ancient adobe which was their home, and again old Marta hobbled to its door to watch the sturdy little figures, graceful as all other wild, young creatures of that wide, free land. Yet they looked more like children of some Indian race, which disdained the dress of civilization, than of white and cultured people. Unshorn and bare headed, their yellow curls floated backward over shoulders clad in kid-skin. Each wore a costume of the same pattern, save that Carlota’s tunic reached to her knees, while her brother’s was cut short at the waist, where a sash of crimson was loosely knotted. At the ankles, their leather leggings were met by gaily embroidered moccasins; and, indeed, their whole garb was simple and comfortable, though exquisitely fine and dainty, and had been designed by their father to meet the needs of the peculiar life they led.
“Together!” shouted Carlos, as they reached their goal; and Carlota’s delight in thus equalling her brother banished all lonely thoughts. She did not suspect, nor he tell her, that her twin had purposely shortened his steps to suit her own. Instead, he proposed:
“Let’s ride him together! I heard Miguel talking about a ‘shearing,’ this morning.”
“Oh! let’s!”