Dionysio shook his head and looked at her steadfastly.
"Not to see you any more?"
Again he shook his head.
"Then I shall not go. Where my Dionysio stays there will I stay. You will not send me away."
"No, my sweet one, I shall not send you away."
He put her down and sought Mr. Page, who was smoking back of the tent. After they had exchanged a few remarks he said:
"Last night I had a long talk with Cecilio. He thinks it is not well that I give my little sister to the white people. And Cecilio knows. Good and kind you will be to her, I am sure; but if you die, and your wife—then what? And even before that? If you keep her like one of yourselves, no other white people will do so—then where is she? Thrown on the world like so many have been—a stranger to her people, not wanted by the others—what is to become of her then? And even if I am living she will have forgotten me. Is it not right what I say?"
"Yes, in some respects it is," answered Mr. Page. "But we were speaking of the child last night, Dionysio—my wife and aunt and myself. My aunt has formed quite an affection for the little one, and proposed that she should take her back to the East, educate her, and have her for a companion."
"Your aunt is no longer young," replied Dionysio.
"No, she is not young."