"Ah!" What was there imperceptible in Don Gil's tone? "You live there? Is the Señorita perhaps the niece of the manager, Señor Adan?"
"Si, Señor," answered Agueda, flushing hotly, she knew not why.
She wheeled Castaño and paced down between the palm trees.
"And you will not take pity on my loneliness?"
Don Gil was still smiling, but there was something new, something of familiarity, it seemed to Agueda, in his tone.
"I cannot stop, Señor. A Dios!" she said, gravely.
As Agueda rode out of the enclosure the day seemed changed. Why was it? She had been so happy before she had delivered the note! Now she felt sad, depressed. The sun was still shining, though there were occasional showers of rain, and the birds were still singing. Nothing in nature had changed. Ah, stay! There was a cloud over there, hanging low down above the sea. It was coming to the westward, she thought. She hoped that it would come, and quickly. She hoped that it would burst in rain upon her, and make her ride for it, and struggle with it. Anything to drive away that unhappy impression.
Had Silencio been asked what he had said or done to cause this young girl to change suddenly from a thoughtless, happy creature to one who felt that she had reason for uneasiness, he could not have told. He had heard vague rumours of the girl, Adan's niece, who lived over at San Isidro. But that he had allowed any such impression to escape him in intonation or gesture he was quite unaware. At all events, he was entirely oblivious of Agueda the moment that she had ridden away, for he opened the little blue note that she had brought, and was lost in its contents.