“My head is throbbing so I can hardly see,” said Louise finally, “and I think I’ll go to my room, pull down the shades, and lie down for a while. No; thank you, dear, you can’t do anything. Just leave me alone for an hour or two in the quiet and the dark.”
Lucy sat on the veranda with the magazine and the box of candy her father had brought; but one lay unopened in her lap and the other untouched on the table beside her, while her eyes wandered across the tree-embowered streets of the town and far over the plain, where, beyond the horizon, were the green groves of the Socorro Springs ranch.
“I’ve got to do it,” she whispered to herself, decision in her wrinkling brow. “There’s no other way, and I must. Daddy is looking wretched—I’ve never seen him look so anxious and disturbed as he does to-day. I’ve got to do it, right away.”
She had not seen Curtis Conrad since the barbecue. Daily had she watched for him, hoping always to see him climbing the hill, longing greatly to look upon his face, and feeling that she must reveal her secret and so put an end, as she firmly believed she could, to her father’s trouble. But he came not; instead, Homer’s visits increased in length and frequency, and she, still hurt and angered by the memory of Curtis’s attentions to Mrs. Ned Castleton at the barbecue, recklessly continued her flirtation with Homer, plunging him more and more deeply in love. She did all this without thought of what was going on in Homer’s breast, wishing only to dull the pain in her own aching heart. Finally, when she realized what was happening, she changed her demeanor in sudden girl-panic, only to precipitate the young man’s proposal, by which she had been both surprised and vexed.
She was quite sure, by this time, that Curtis Conrad did not care for her at all, and she had ceased expecting him to come to their house. Yet she never went out upon the veranda without letting her eyes wander wishfully down the street. They were there now, scanning the long, steep hill. But they saw only a little, bare-legged Mexican boy toiling slowly up the grade. No, she decided, only one thing was left for her to do: she would have to write and ask him to come and see her. Her heart rebelled at first, and she unconsciously tossed her head and her eyes flashed. “But it’s for daddy,” she presently told herself, “and there’s no other way. I’ve got to do it.” Of course, it would be a humiliation; but so was the whole hateful business, and what was one little thing more or less?
Looking toward the street again she saw that the little Mexican lad was coming to her gate. His baggy, ragged overalls were held by a single strap over his shoulder, and his small, brown face, under his miniature, torn sombrero, was hot and dirty. He peered at her through the palings, and she exclaimed, “Why, it’s little Pablo Melgares!” She went down to the gate, saying in Spanish, “Do you want anything, Pablo?”
Gravely and silently he gave her a letter he had been carrying in his hat. Although she had seen the handwriting but once before, her heart leaped and a delicious thrill ran through her veins as she read the address.
“Is there an answer?” she asked, tremulously.
“Si, señorita,” said the boy.