“But—Nicoloso?”
“Pooh! for Nicoloso! He needn’t come if you are good, need he? Sutro, what makes one so uncomf’table to be hungry? If it weren’t for that queerness inside of me I could stay out all day, and maybe all night.”
“Ten thousand pardons, Señ’rita, but thou couldst not. What would thy father do if dinner came but not his little daughter?”
“Sure—what could he? He couldn’t live without me, could he? And there’s the house. Another race, ’tween Tito and Mazan´ this time, not Tito catching her. To the house. I’ll beat you, my Sutro!”
They struck into it briskly; but, as they neared the goal, both riders slackened pace at sight of a strange carriage standing before the ranch-house door, with several of the household servants grouped excitedly about it.
“More strangers!” cried Steenie, regretfully. “It is nothing but comp’ny all the time, nowadays; and I get no more nice times with papa, because he must always attend to them. I wish they wouldn’t come; don’t you, Sutro?”
But she received no answer; for the old caballero had muttered two words, “The master!” then had dashed around the building toward the kitchen court.
“The master? Who can he be? Isn’t my father the master? Except, of course, that great rich lord who owns Santa Felisa, and never comes near it at all,—not once in all my life, my father says; and I’m sure I hope he hasn’t now, for I should be dreadfully afraid of a lord who wore a gold cornet on his head, as Suzan´ says ‘every lord does who is any ’count at all.’”
But he had indeed come; and the little girl, who had trotted slowly up to the verandah, was lifted from her saddle, and duly presented by her father, the manager, to a stout, red-faced old gentleman as, “My Lord, my daughter.”
“So? Hm-m. Let me see. Wife died. Only one? So, so. Nice child. Run along, Sissy. Hm-m. I’d like dinner now. Great country for appetite—California. Afterward, business.”