“My dear father is very impulsive. His hopes sank as fast as they had risen. ‘Of course,’ he said afterwards, ‘Mariquita is a common name, and should not have raised my expectations so quickly, but the likeness, you see, staggered me.’
“Dear father!” continued Manuela, casting down her eyes, and speaking in a pensive tone, “I do love him so, because of his little imperfections. They set off his good points to so much greater advantage. I should not like to have a perfect father. Would you, Pedro?”
She raised her eyes to the guide’s face with an arch look—and those eyes had become wonderfully lustrous since the skin had lost its brown hue.
“Really, Manuela,” returned the impatient guide, “I have not yet considered what degree of perfection I should like in my father—but how about—”
“Forgive me, yes—Mariquita. Well, finding that we were going to the house where she dwelt, Mariquita walked with us, and told us that she had lived with our English friends, Mr and Mrs Daulton, since she was a little child. Did she remember her parents? we asked. Yes, she remembered them perfectly, and tried to describe them, but we could make nothing of that for evidently she thought them handsomer, grander, and more beautiful than any other people in the world. She did not remember where they dwelt—except that it was in the woods and among mountains.
“‘That corresponds exactly,’ cried my father, becoming excited. ‘Forgive me, child; I am an eccentric old fellow, but—did you quit your home amid fire and smoke and yells—’
“My father was stopped at this point by our arrival at the house, and the appearance of our friends. But he was too much roused by that time to let the matter drop, so he carried Mrs Daulton off to the library, and learned from her that the child had been lent to her by a priest!
“‘Lent, my dear madam?’ said my father.
“‘Yes, lent. The priest laughed when he presented her, but said the child was the orphan daughter of a distant relation of his who had left her to his care. He did not want her, or know what to do with her, and offered to give her to us. My husband said he could not accept such a gift, but he would gladly accept her as a loan! We both disbelieved the priest, for he was a bad man; but, as we were much in want of a companion for our own little girl at the time, we accepted her, and brought her here. The priest died suddenly, and as there was no one else to claim her, we have kept her ever since, and right glad we are to have her.’
“‘You won’t have her long,’ said my sweet father, in his usual blunt and pleasant way. ‘I am convinced that I know her father. Of course Arnold is a name you gave her?’ ‘No; when she came to us she said her name was Mariquita, but she knew of no other name. It was the priest who told, us her surname was Arnold.’