"The story is a tragedy. Louise's husband—Don Leonardo, the Mexican called him—was a musician, as you know. That was the chief reason for Father's disliking him. It seems that he had wandered to Vera Cruz with the orchestra of a theatrical company that stranded there. He was in sore straits pretty often. 'The little girl used to cry from hunger,' my man said."
"Poor little thing!"
"It was the first I knew of there being a child. The father finally got work in the orchestra of a small theatre and managed to make a few pesos a week. That seems to have relieved the situation somewhat, but it also brought on Leonard the anger of some of the other musicians in town who had wanted the 'job' that he had secured."
"He probably needed it more than they."
"But he was a 'gringo' and they hated him. And"—with a glance toward Ethel Blue, swinging gently in the darkness, "and he died suddenly."
"Oh, poor Louise!" exclaimed Mrs. Morton, and "Poor little girl!" exclaimed Ethel.
"Somehow or other Louise managed to scrape together money enough to take the child back to the States, but there was business to be attended to and she left a permanent address with the Señor who had looked after some legal matters for her in Vera Cruz."
"Did you find him? Did he tell you the address?"
"I found him, and when he understood why I wanted to know he gave me the name of the Chicago lawyer whom she would always keep informed of her whereabouts."
"So you got a furlough and you're on your way to Chicago now?"