Adrian Manuel had gone “north”, but nobody knew where. The children had never been told the name of their great aunt, Mrs. Sinclair, nor even, until the Disbrows’ arrival at Refugio, of her existence. Then Miguel had spoken of her as “a wicked old woman”, and had honestly considered her such—simply because she gave annoyance to his master. Neither child had mentioned the lawyers save as “enemies”, and the further cross-examination which the Captain had intended making in the presence of the station-master—for their mutual benefit—had been forgotten in his hurried departure elsewhere. After he had parted from his little charges he had remembered this fact, but trusted to the station-agent’s intelligence to learn what more there was to know.
Moreover, for some time past, Mrs. Burnham had lived in expectation of a removal, and this fact, added to the foregoing, made the children’s future a doubtful one.
Household duties were simple in that narrow cabin, and though there was always sewing to be done, that could be taken out of doors. So, as soon as the place was in order, Mrs. Burnham took Carlota’s hand and said:
“Come, I have one other treasure to show you. Bare as this isolated station may seem to you I have learned to love it. We have lived here for some years and were only temporarily at Leopard. I didn’t wish to go there and was glad to come back, because of—that!”
Carlota’s gaze followed the pointing finger. At some little distance from the cluster of buildings was a small heap of stones. Around the heap there had been set a slender fence of tule reeds, strung together by strips of the same growth. A cactus, larger than ordinary and loaded with brilliant flowers, stood at one end of the enclosure while at the other a struggling tree made a bit of shade. A rude shed had been fixed beyond the spot, and within this a bench, whereon Mrs. Burnham and Carlota now sat down.
“What lovely blossoms! We have some cacti of that kind in our mother’s garden.”
“This one blooms—in my child’s.”
The girl looked up in surprise, but instantly understood. She slipped her hand into the mother’s and softly asked:
“Was it long ago?”
“Five years. She would have almost been a woman now and I often think what she would have been to me as such. Then I look abroad and am glad she is not here to suffer the intolerable loneliness of the plains. The young are not fond of solitude. Her name was Mary.”