“Ah! my daughter, would I like the impossible? But, yes, I am famished, indeed, for the good dinner of Marta, my housekeeper,” he answered, with a shrug of his plump shoulders.
“Well, father, I cannot give you a dinner, but I can make you a pot of fresh coffee; and in Pedro’s little storeroom are cans of meat, and beans and biscuit. Oh! I tell you! I’ll bring the plates out here––there are two whole ones––and dear Mr. Sharp and you shall have a picnic.”
Already, with the light-heartedness of childhood, she had almost forgotten the sorrowful errand upon 205 which she had come to the mesa. Besides, to her, a thing that was possible was, also, probable, and John would never have raised false hopes in Antonio’s breast. She was sure of that, and already the senor’s recovery a matter of but a little while. Moreover, to serve others was her dearest happiness, and though Fra Sebastian’s faith was different from her parents’, she had been trained to know all good people as the children of God. And he was especially such, for his benefactions and self-sacrifices were widespread, and he had been an honored guest at her father’s table.
“Oh! I am so happy to do anything for so holy a man, and I am so glad––so glad we came!” she whispered to Ninian, tripping away to relight the little stove and fill her kettle afresh.
“But I must be allowed to help, too, my captain,” he returned, eagerly entering into the altered spirit of things; and so merry were they over their preparations, so gay and bright the reverend guest became, that Antonio was helped over his own tedious time of waiting, and scarce knew how the time passed before John’s return.
This was sooner than could have been anticipated. The physician was already halfway on the road, intending a neighborly call at Sobrante, when the carpenter met and literally collared him.
“Come you must, Dr. Kimball. I shan’t take ‘no’ for an answer,” was the decisive retort to the rose-grower’s prompt refusal.
“I shall do nothing of the sort. I’m not a practicing physician now, and I never was a surgeon. As for that scalawag, Bernal, if he’s got himself shot, he’s met exactly what he deserved. Giddap!” he cried, to his horse, and was dashing past, just as 206 John’s long arm reached out and clutched the ranchman’s coat.
“It isn’t so much for him as for our Lady Jess. You’re not in such a tearin’ hurry, neighbor, and if you are––well, just let your hurry wait.”
Whereupon, in a few brief, telling sentences, Dr. Kimball was put in possession of the facts Antonio had revealed, and had wheeled his horse about, with a whimsical snarl: