"A year in the College Settlement!" echoed the Professor, vaguely.
"Yes; that will suit me better than—this. Don't forget to send Francisco with the ticket! Good-by!"
She gave him her hand frankly, and once more their eyes encountered.
"If I had had a French grandmother, you see—it might have been different with me," she said with a touch of mirthfulness. "And that at least is true," she concluded to herself, looking so straight ahead that she walked a space beyond the hotel without seeing.
The Professor, going in the opposite direction, went like a man under sentence.
That "intolerable homesickness" was already upon him; but he was determined to go. He, too, was a New Englander. It is a great thing to have inherited principles.
He was determined to go—all the way up under the hanging peppers—all the way beside the scented limes; nor did his determination falter as he turned into the accustomed path under the oranges, and the sight and perfume of a thousand roses stormed him all at once.
There in the wonted place Francisca sat, steadily drawing the threads with unsteady fingers. Her lips might be a little pale, but they smiled. Even the rose was not missing from her hair.
Francisco, perfectly miserable and perfectly proud, rose mutely from the steps to salute the Señor.
The Señor with two gentle hands lifted the boy from his path, and made two steps to the chair—one touch drew the lace from the brave fingers.