“I have several packages of spaghetti he gave me to use on feast days. He showed me how to cook it. We learned to like it so well, he declared that my forefathers were Italians. And sure enough, my mother began to hunt up old family history, and she discovered that her great-grandmother was an Italian noblewoman,” said Catalina.
“Child,” replied the Governor, “you have always been something more to me than an ordinary child, a child of entirely plebeian birth. The mere fact of your wounded pride on learning that you were born out of wedlock, that broke your heart and caused your untimely demise, proved the question of your blood to be other than plebeian.”
“I do not cry any more now, over the past,” said Catalina, “for I believe in the righting of all wrongs. It is worked out by Nature and Nature’s help to man.”
“Come, child, my little philosopher, kiss your papa; kiss me fondly. A strange fear is crowding over me,” he said, holding out his arms to her.
She did his bidding with much fervor, and whispering in his ear, said: “Juan is coming with our luncheon. I will open the door.”
The faithful old man entered and set before them a dainty meal, and stood quietly back of the Governor’s chair while he ate heartily of the food. The meal was quite contrary to the usual customs of the household—that is, without any conversation and with much dispatch.
The Governor arose when he had finished, looked at his watch, and said: “It is now one o’clock. Juan, remove the dishes, and take the child to the housekeeper.”
“Yes, your Honor,” replied Juan. “Here is a letter I was told to give you at one o’clock.”
The Governor took the letter, and kissing the child fondly, said: “Go with Juan, dear, and tell Juanita you need to sleep.”
As they were leaving the room, she said: “I am sleepy and will take a nap—but will show you the way to Marriet Motuble, when you go.”