“And what is puzzling your brain now, Luisa, darling! You have been silent for one whole ten minutes by the watch. Surely something dreadful must be pending.”
“Why—was I still? I must have been thinking, Felipe.”
“Really? Well, as I never heard of your doing such a thing before, suppose you tell me the subject of your thoughts. Come, call me your father confessor, and begin.”
The speakers were Luisa and Felipe Canelo, who were walking in the large garden at the rear of the house, that was surrounded by a moderately high wall. They both looked somewhat abstracted, and Felipe particularly so, as though ill at ease.
“Well, I know of none that would suit me better than my handsome, noble brother,” she replied, with forced gaiety. “Come, here in the arbor. Let us sit down and I will try to explain why I am ‘out of sorts,’ if you will be as frank.”
“I?” echoed Felipe, as if astonished at her words.
“Yes, sir, you. Do you think you can blind me? I say that you have some secret in your mind, and I must know what it is; so there!”
“Sis—Luisa, tell me what you mean. What is it that you know?” cried Felipe, hoarsely, as he sunk upon the seat at her side.
“Brother, Felipe, are you ill? You are as pale as a ghost!”
“No, no; I am well, quite well. But tell me what you know—what you meant by my secret,” tightly clasping her hands.