Pedro smiled assent, and nodded.
“His is a loving and loveable nature,” resumed our heroine.
(“So is his daughter’s,” thought Pedro, but he did not say so.)
“And he never forgets a friend,” continued Manuela. “He has often, often spoken to me about you, and your dear ones, and many a time in his military wanderings has he made inquiries about the dear child who was stolen so long ago—ten years now, is it not?”
“Ay, not far short of eleven. She was just turned five when last I beheld her angel face—no, not last, thank God.”
“Well, Pedro, you may easily believe that we had many raisings of our hopes, like yourself, and many, many disappointments, but these last arose from our looking chiefly in wrong directions. It somehow never occurred to us that her lot might have fallen among people of rank and wealth. Yet so it was. One day when out on the Pampas not far from Buenos Ayres, visiting a friend, and never thinking of dear Mariquita, we saw a young girl coming towards us down the garden walk.
“As she came near, my father stopped short, and laid his hand on my shoulder with such a grasp that I nearly cried out. I looked up in surprise, and never before saw such an expression of eager inquiry on his face.
“‘Manuela!’ he said, in a low, tremulous voice, ‘if Mariquita is alive I see her now. I see our friend Pedro in every line of her pretty face.’
“I looked, but could not see the likeness. You know how differently people seem to be affected by the same face. I failed to see in the sweet countenance framed in curling fair hair, and in the slight girlish figure of surpassing grace, my swarthy friend Pedro. She seemed startled at first by my father’s abrupt manner. He questioned her. What was her name—‘Mariquita,’ she said. ‘I was sure of it,’ rejoined my father. ‘Your surname, my girl?’
“‘Arnold, senhor,’ she replied, with surprise.