Pictures from the hands of the old masters were brought from the house, with tapestry and fringes; and every thing that the luxurious climate produced was added, until nothing seemed wanting to make it the one booth of enchanting beauty.
The señora superintended the arrangement of all, while the señor sat a little apart, watching with delight the magic workings of her exquisite taste and refinement. All this time the nurse held the infant in her arms, singing quaint old Indian ballads, rocking her to and fro with a soothing motion, till at last the restless fingers were stilled and the pretty eyes closed. The little one slept, and dreamed, no doubt, such dreams as the loving God sends to guileless infancy.
Just then the procession started, and the music fell upon the ear of the young Indian girl who was always near to wait upon old Macata, the nurse.
“Macata,” she said, as she started lightly from the mat on which she was sitting, “it touches my heart; I must go! See, the baby sleeps. Nothing can harm it. Come, mother Macata, only for a moment!”
“Nothing can harm it,” said the old Indian, as she laid the child in its little straw cradle, for she, too, loved the festive sight and glad music of the fête.
She had wished, of all things, to join the gossips of the mission on the plaza, but, since that could not be, she saw no reason, while the child was sleeping so sweetly, that she should not go to the garden wall, and for a few moments catch a passing glimpse of the gay procession. She bent over the child, patting it softly with her great strong hand, and singing in a low voice:—
“Sleep! baby, sleep!
While I softly creep
Sleep, baby, dear.”