He raised his haggard face.
"Ah, yes—you!" he cried. "You—you've been waiting here—for me?"
"Yes. I wanted to tell you—to explain before you got to the house. We didn't know, you see—and the notice was so terribly short; but we'll go in the morning. I've saved dinner for you, Don Mike—and your old room is ready for you. Oh, you don't know how sorry I am for you, you poor man!"
He hid his face again.
"Don't—please!" he cried, in a choked voice. "I can't stand sympathy—to-night—from you!"
She laid a hand on his shoulder.
"Come, come; you must buck up, old soldier," she assured him. "You'll have to meet Pablo and Carolina very soon."
"I'm so alone and desperate," he muttered, through clenched teeth. "You can't—realize what this means—to me. My father was an old man—he had—accomplished his years—and I weep for him, because I loved—him. But oh, my home—this—dear land——"
He choked, and, in that moment, she forgot that this man was a stranger to her. She only knew that he had been stricken, that he was helpless, that he lacked the greatest boon of the desolate—a breast upon which he might weep. Gently she lifted the black head and drew it down on her shoulder; her arm went round his neck and patted his cheek, and his full heart was emptied.
There was so much of the little boy about him!