“I kom queek,” replied the girl, with a hearty laugh.
It had by that time become an established little touch of pleasantry between these two that Lawrence should teach the Indian girl English—at least to the extent of familiar phrases—while she should do the same for him with Spanish. There was one thing that the youth liked much in this, and it also surprised him a little, namely, that it seemed to draw the girl out of her Indian reticence and gravity, for she laughed with childlike delight at the amazing blunders she made in attempting English. Indeed, she laughed far more at herself than at him, although his attempts at Spanish were even more ridiculous.
A few minutes later Manuela entered the room, and, with a modest yet gracious smile, took a seat opposite her pupil-teacher.
“Dignity,” thought the latter—“native dignity and grace! Being the daughter of a great chief of the Incas—a princess, I suppose—she cannot help it. An ordinary Indian female, now, would have come into the room clumsily, looked sheepish, and sat down on the edge of her chair—perhaps on the floor!”
But as he gazed at her short, black, curly hair, her splendid black eyebrows, her pretty little high-bred mouth, beautiful white teeth, and horribly brown skin, he sighed, and only said—
“Ay, ay! Well, well! What a pity!”
“What ees dat?” inquired the girl, with a look of grave simplicity.
“Did I speak?” returned Lawrence, a little confused.
“Yes—you say, ‘Ay, ay. Well, well. What a pittie!’”
“Oh!—ah!—yes—I was only thinking, Manuela. What will you have?”