When Lawrence was gone, the old soldier found his daughter in a tastefully arranged closet which she called her boudoir, the miniature glass-door of which opened on a luxuriant garden, where wood, water, sunshine, and herbage, wild and tame, seemed to revel for the mastery.
“That young fellow Armstrong has come back,” said the old man, abruptly.
“I know it,” was Manuela’s brief reply. She did not look up, being too busily engaged at the moment in the hideously commonplace act of darning the smallest possible hole in one of her dear little stockings.
“You know it, child?”
“Yes, father.”
“Do you also know that he has just been here, and formally asked your hand in marriage?”
“Yes, father, I know it.”
“Why, child, how could you know that? You surely have not been tempted to—to condescend to eavesdropping?”
“No, father, I have not condescended to that, but I have heard it on the best authority. Have you not yourself just told me?”
“Oh—ah—well,” exclaimed the stern man, relaxing into a smile in spite of himself, as he observed the calm, quiet, earnest way in which that princess of the Incas applied herself to the reparation of that little hole. “Now Manuela, my darling,” continued the colonel, changing his tone and manner suddenly as he sat down beside her and put a hand lovingly on her shoulder, “you know that I would not for all the world permit, or induce you to do anything that would risk your happiness. I now come to ask you seriously if you—if you are in—in short, if you admire this young fellow.”