Had there been twenty men beneath her roof, each would have been her peculiar care. Her manner to her young brother had a caressing sweetness which a New England girl would have kept for her lover or conscientiously forborne him—for his soul's sake.
As for Francisco, sixteen, brown, slender, wearing his peaked sombrero with consummate grace (a gift he shared in common with every wood-cutter and ranchero of the pure blood), he was the Professor's companion in every walk, every blood-stirring lope across the open mesa, every delicious climb up the chaparral-sided hills or the ferny cañons. The boy grew into his heart; and in return Francisco loved him as boys and Southerners can love, with adoration.
It was only a short time after he came among them that the Professor stopped one morning on his way out of the breakfast-room (in which they never breakfasted!) to examine a quaint inlaid guitar, hanging by faded ribbons against the wall.
"It is Francisco's," said Francisca. "He plays beautifully; but he has never played since our mother died—he hung it here then."
"That is not well," said the Professor. "You should win him to play again."
That evening, in the moonlight on the porch, Francisca laid a tender hand upon her brother's head as he sat on the step below. Her hands seemed made for such a purpose.
"Francisco, the Señor asks if you never mean to play your guitar again."
Francisco was silent a moment, looking at the stars.
"Perhaps," he replied. "Some day, when we are very happy again—not yet." Then turning his head, he touched the caressing hand lightly with his lips.
"At thy wedding—or mine—querida," he said, lightly, and rising abruptly, went into the house.