“He said you were beautiful. Could he but see thee now!”
After a sudden start Francesca moved over to the couch and collapsed beside it in a white heap.
“Awake, niña? What is this? He said I was beautiful? Who?”
“The gringo señor. When I began to cry for my mother and little Pedro that was drowned with her in the flood he said for me to take comfort, that he was going to place me with the most beautiful señorita in all Guerrero—one that would be kinder to me than my mother.”
“And that I will be.” Drawing her close, Francesca kissed the small gold face. “But did he really say—No, you shall tell me all about it from the very beginning.”
While the tale was proceeding in soft lisping Spanish Francesca’s eyes eloquently illustrated its varied course. But their wide horror, moist pity at the drowning of the poor brown mother, suspense until Seyd and the child had climbed back into the dugout, merged in a soft glow at the repetition of his promise. “‘The most beautiful señorita in all Guerrero?’ Then he could not have meant me.”
“Si.” The girl emphatically nodded. “Also he said you would take me into your service.”
“And so I will. I shall have thee trained for my own little maid. I shall call thee Roberta, after him, and every night it will be thy duty to speak for him in thy prayers. Are they said?”
“Si, señorita. I said them to the big girl, Rosa, but I will say one now for him—with thee.”