"I must go soon, Eulogia," he murmured, as the voices waxed louder.
"Duty calls me back to Monterey."
"I am glad to know thou hast a sense of thy duty."
"Nothing but that would take me away from San Luis Obispo. But both my mother and—and—a dear friend are ill, and wish to see me."
"Thou must go to-night. How canst thou eat and be gay when thy mother and—and—a dear friend are ill?"
"Ay, Eulogia! wouldst thou scoff over my grave? I go, but it is for thee to say if I return."
"Do not tell me that thou adorest me here at the table. I shall blush, and all will be about my smarting ears like the bees down in the padre's hive."
"I shall not tell thee that before all the world, Eulogia. All I ask is this little favour: I shall send thee a letter the night I leave. Promise me that thou wilt answer it—to Monterey."
"No, sir! Long ago, when I was twelve, I made a vow I would never write to a man. I never break that vow."
"Thou wilt break it for me, Eulogia."
"And why for you, señor? Half the trouble in the world has been made on paper."