Long after the Professor's light was extinguished, the lad lay watching the night away in the hammock.
The stamp of that vigil was on his face the next morning when he asked the Professor to advise him as to some orange-trees at the farther end of the ranch. The Professor, who had also passed a white night, gave a haggard consent. Francisca alone appeared fresh and smiling. The best artists do not adorn the stage.
There seemed nothing particular the matter with the grove, when they had reached it.
"Which are the trees in question?" asked the Professor, who at that moment wished all oranges in a climate much too tropical for them.
"Señor," replied Francisco, facing him—and it struck the Professor the boy had grown tall overnight—"do you love my sister?"
"Francisco!" exclaimed the Professor, violently, and the blood began to pound in his ears.
"I must know, Señor. When you spoke of an old friend, we thought, Francisca and I, of an old woman—and now here has come this young lady from your home, one of your people—and she calls you by your name, and you call her by hers. She has come because she cares for you, and you spend your time with her, and yet, Señor, you gave her back her rose and kept my sister's!"
There was a guilty movement of the Professor's hand toward his breast-pocket, instantly checked.
"When you came home last night you called my sister by name. Señor, this cannot be! I am not jealous; you have a right to love this other, but I must know. I do not say for a moment," he added, proudly, "that Francisca has thought of you, but she is very young. She might come to care, and—I will not have it so!"
"Francisco!" exclaimed the Professor again.