"Don Matéo Geredo."
"Why do you not speak to him?"
"I nodded," said Beltran.
"You did not return his salute. I am sure it was a very gracious one, cousin. Why did you not return his—"
"Because he is a brute," said Beltran, shortly.
Felisa had not been oblivious of the glance of admiration observable in the man's eyes as he passed her by.
"Jealous so soon," she thought, with that vanity which is ever the food of small minds. Aloud she said, "He seems to have a pleasant face, cousin."
"So others have thought," said Beltran, with an air which said that the subject was quite worn out, threadbare. Then, changing his tone, "See, there is the casa! Welcome to the plantation, my little cousin."
And thus chatting, they drew up at the steps of San Isidro.
Agueda came joyfully out to meet them. Ah! what was this? Where was the little child of whom she and Beltran had talked so much? Agueda had carefully dusted the little red cart. She had fastened a yellow ribbon in the place from which the tongue had long ago been wrenched by Beltran himself. The cart stood ready in the corner of the veranda, but Agueda did not bring it forward. She caught sight of a glitter of bracelets and rings against a snow-white skin, as Felisa was lifted down from the aparejo in her cousin's arms. Her lips moved unconsciously.