The arrangements were these—Concha remained to assist Don Ramon, who had once more assumed the position of a property-holder and man of authority among his townsfolk, to open out and prepare his house for the reception of Dolóres. That little wife and mother, in spite of her new joy, continued delicate in health, though (needless to say) the nuns had given her the very best possible nursing. But those who saw the meeting of husband and wife knew that now she would have a better chance of recovery than all the bitter tisanes and laborious simples of the Sisters' store-cupboard had afforded her.
Etienne and John Mortimer decided to await events at the hostelry of Gaspar Perico. The former took the first opportunity of converting the silent serving-maid as far as possible to his interests by a judicious gift of some half a dozen gold pieces. Immediately thereafter, having thus protected his rear, he sought the green lattice. It had been taken down and a seven-foot wall had been built. Indeed a mason, who was at that moment engaged in laying the coping, informed him that the family had left for South America. Whereupon Etienne went back in haste and found the barefooted Abigail.
"Why did you not tell me that they were gone—before——?" he demanded angrily.
"Before what?" asked the Abigail, putting the corner of her apron to her mouth and biting it with the utmost simplicity.
"Before I gave you that money?"
"Because—why, because your Excellency never asked me!"
"And pray, Señorita," growled Etienne, waxing grimly satirical, "what did you suppose that I gave you the money for?"
The maid-servant let go the apron, put one finger to her mouth instead, and, looking down with infinite modesty, sketched with her bare toe upon the ground.
"Well?" queried Etienne, impatiently, and with a sharp rising inflection.
"Because," fluttered the little maid-of-all-work, "because I—I thought you liked me!"