“Pobrecito”—this was her pet word carried through the years from childhood—“Pobrecito, thy face is as grave as the owl’s. Some secret? Remember, there are no secrets between us two—no worry which the other does not share.”
Her coaxing hand played through the heavy mane of hair; her cheek was against his. Don Padraic slowly turned his head with denial in his eyes; but that denial could not sustain the accusation in the steady blue eyes of the daughter. During the week Benicia had been home a secret doubt had steadily pressed upon the father; he had been waiting some word from her which did not come. Now one of his hands stole up to tweak her ear—signal of surrender.
“’Nicia, great-heart, you have told me all about your two years in the cities—your two years of life in the great world outside? There is something you have withheld?”
“Nothing, little father.” She gave him a peck on the forehead. Don Padraic appeared to be groping for his words.
“You met—many American men—young men who—ah—might have been attracted by the beauty of my desert flower?”
A ripple of soft laughter and the girl pressed closer to him.
“Ah, Pobrecito, you forget that your desert flower carries thorns. Ask that ridiculous Hamilcar Urgo; he has felt the thorns.”
“But”—Don Padraic was not to be put off by evasions—“was there not one whose heart was conquered by a girl of such fire, such beauty? Come—come! These Americans are not men of ice.”
For a minute Benicia was silent. She was weighing in all sincerity the only shred of a secret she had in her heart; testing it for genuineness as fairly as she might.