The old woman grunted; she had heard that question before.
"See how pink and smooth it is—not red and wrinkled like other babies! How becoming is that mantilla! No, she shall not be wrapped in blankets, cap, and shawls."
"She catch cold, most likely," grunted the nurse.
"In this weather? No; it is soft as midsummer. I cannot get cool. Ay, she looks like a rosebud lying in a fog-bank!" She touched the baby's cheek with her finger, then sat on the bed, beside her daughter. "And how dost thou feel, my little one? Thou wert a baby thyself but yesterday, and thou art not much more to-day."
"I feel perfectly well, my mother, and—ay, Dios, so happy! Where is
Edourdo?"
"Of course! Always the husband! They are all alike! Hast thou not thy mother and thy baby?"
"I adore you both, mamacita, but I want Edourdo. Where is he?"
Her mother grimaced. "I suppose it is no use to protest. Well, my little one, I think he is at this moment on the hill with Lieutenant Ord."
"Why did he not come to see me before he went out?"
"He did, my daughter, but thou wert asleep. He kissed thee and stole away."