"Thanks, Ruiz. Oh, you are right; I would sooner die than dream of increasing my father's grief."
"I know it, child," the Marquis answered, with sad impatience; "but you are young, inexperienced, and doubtless accept the wishes of your heart as certainties."
"Why not listen to what my sister has to say, father?" Don Ruiz said. "If she is deceiving herself—if what she wishes to tell us does not produce on you the effect she expects from it, at any rate she will have given an undeniable proof of the lively interest she takes in your affairs; and were it only for that reason, both you and I owe her thanks."
"Of what good is it, children?"
"Good heavens, father! In our fearful situation we should neglect nothing. Who knows? Very frequently the weakest persons bring the greatest help. Listen to my sister first, and then you will judge whether her remarks deserve to be taken into consideration."
"As you press it, Ruiz, I will hear her."
"I do not press, father—I entreat. Come, speak, little sister; speak without fear, for we shall listen—at least I shall—with the liveliest interest."
Doña Marianna smiled sweetly, threw her arms round her father's neck, and laid her head on his shoulder with a charming gesture.
"How I love you, my dear father!" she said; "How I should like to see you happy! I have nothing to tell you, for you will not believe me; and what I might have to say is so strange and improbable, that you would not put faith in it."
"You see, child, that I was right."