That same afternoon Quashy paid a formal visit to Manuela at her father’s residence in the suburbs of Buenos Ayres, and told her, with a visage elongated to the uttermost, and eyes in which solemnity sat enthroned, that a very sick man in the country wanted to see her immediately before he died.
“Dear me, Quashy,” said Manuela, an expression of sympathy appearing at once on her fine eyebrows, “who is it? what is his name? and why does he send for me?”
“I can’t tell you his name, miss. I’s not allowed. But it’s a bad case, an’ it will be awrful if he should die widout seein’ you. You’d better be quick, miss, an’ I’ll promise to guide you safe, an’ take great care ob you.”
“That I know you will, Quashy. I can trust you. I’ll order my horse im—”
“De hoss am at de door a’ready, miss. I order ’im afore I come here.”
Manuela could not restrain a little laugh at the cool presumption of her sable friend, as she ran out of the room to get ready.
A few minutes more and the pair were cantering through the streets in the direction of the western suburbs of the town.