“Beg pardon, Señor Soldier, but we’re not kids. We’re children, just regular American children. We only wear kid-skin clothes, charros;[10] that’s all. Because our father says it is the very comfortablest and best dress there is for children who live as we do. We’re almost always out of doors, you see, and in these things we are ready for any fun that’s going.”
“I should think so, indeed, or for any business, either. Your father is a sensible man, that’s as plain as a pipe-stem. I’ve heard about him. Where is he?”
“Oh! have you, Señor Soldier! But that’s what we don’t know, what we’re trying to find out.”
The gray haired officer sat down and drew the little girl to his knee. The action was so gentle and fatherly that it banished her slight self-control and flinging her arms about his neck she sobbed:
“Oh! you dear sir! Won’t you help us find him? We thought it would be easy, but he is so far, so very far away!”
“There, there, little lass! I’ll do my best, surely. I’m a soldier, you know. It’s my business to help little maids when they need help.”
Carlota instantly stopped crying and kissed the grizzled Captain upon his stiff moustache, saying:
“I knew it! The very minute I looked into your eyes I knew that you liked little children. We’re not so very little, you know, but I guess we’re little enough to be liked.”
“I reckon so! But what was there in my eyes that told you that about me!”
“A twinkle. Folks who don’t love little children never twinkle their eyes.”