When the Doña Maria returned, Mariposilla had recovered her spirits. She was talking gaily with Sidney, unconscious of everything but the delight of the moment. As her mother approached, she flew to her side, that she might admire the necklace she had just received. With pretty entreaty she begged the Doña Maria to thank once more the dear friends who had given her so much joy.
For a moment the mother seemed to forget everything but the touching happiness of her child. A tender light shone in the great, dark eyes when she thanked us in a little speech displaying the fervent characteristics of her simple nature.
The supper was now steaming upon the table. A great platter of chicken tamales had been prepared, as none but the Doña Maria knew how to prepare them. The fragrant coffee, the dainty biscuit and the rich preserves and cream, tempted us delightfully with the unconventional perfection of Spanish hospitality.
The only restraint upon our complete enjoyment was the consciousness of the protesting grandmother. Mrs. Sanderson, I perceived, was intensely annoyed.
Her hatred of the imbecile tyranny of age was plain when the Doña Maria excused herself, finding it impossible to remain longer away from her unreasonable charge, now protesting in methodical shrieks.
"Be happy, dear friends," she said. "Mind not the infirmities of my mother. I will soon soothe her—in time—to sleep; when she will forget for a season the sorrows of her life. Make free with all that is ours, and enjoy, if possible, the supper which I have prepared. My daughter will serve, and may the night be happy!"
Dear, brave Doña Maria! how could we reverence her enough? How forget in mirth the pathos of her noble unselfishness?
Long after the Sandersons had gone, long after Mariposilla had ceased to rejoice over her splendid fortunes, forgetting in the natural slumbers of youth the caressing pressure of the gold beads, or the sweet secret of the little bracelet hugging her arm, that she must not show, but could kiss in solitude, long after the gorgeous air castles, built by the ignorant, innocent young architect, had crumbled for the night, and I had ceased to listen to the faint noises from the adjoining room, did the patient Doña Maria keep her vigil.
As I dropped to sleep I heard her tender voice soothing like an infant the aged mother, who at last sank away into a long, irresistible slumber.
When the clear, yellow dawn of Christmas morn awakened the cocks of the corral, I heard the Doña Maria knocking at her daughter's door. Opening my own I inquired if her mother still slept, begging that I might relieve for a time her patient watch.