“Yes; but I don’t know how it will be with these girls, particularly Mary; for Mary is, in my opinion, already infatuated,—yes, infatuated with this Don Miff, as he calls himself.”
“Why, Alice, how can you say so?” But an explosion all around the circle aroused Mary to the consciousness that once more and for the thousand and first time she had failed to detect the banter that lay in ambush behind her friend’s assumed earnestness. “Oh, I knew you couldn’t mean it,” said she, with a faint smile. “The truth is, Mr. Whacker,” continued she, “I am not sure that I altogether like this mysterious Don. Do you know, Alice, I should be afraid of him?”
“Afraid of him! Why, pray?”
“Well, perhaps I am jumping at conclusions, as they say we women all do; but, unless I am greatly mistaken, that man, while he might be a very staunch friend, is certainly capable of proving a most unrelenting foe.”
“Oh, I am sure you do him injustice,” said Lucy.
This young woman was not a great talker; but whenever the absent needed a defender, the suffering a friend, or the down-trodden a champion, that gentle voice was not wanting.
“I am sure nothing could surpass the gentleness of his manner towards little Laura.”
“Very true,” rejoined Mary; “but have you not noticed the expression of his eyes at times, when he is pacing to and fro, as he did for some time yesterday, reviewing in his mind, I should judge, some event in his past life? Every now and then there would come into them a look so stern and bitter as to give his countenance an expression which might almost be called ferocious.”
“Oh, Mr. Whacker, I think Mary’s imagination must be running away with her,” broke in Lucy. “Now let me tell you of an incident which all of us witnessed one day while you were absent. The day had been damp and raw; and just as Mr. Don Miff—I don’t wonder at your laughing,—was there ever such a name before? What was I saying? Ah! there came on one of those cold October rains just as the Don was going away. He had taken but a few steps when his attention was arrested by the whining of a little dog across the street. What kind of a dog did you say it was, Mrs. Carter?”
“It was a Mexican dog, a wretched little thing, of a breed which is almost entirely destitute of hair. Our volunteers brought home some of them, as curiosities, on their return from the Mexican war. The one Lucy is speaking of is very old, and is, likely enough, the last representative of his species in the city.”