And it was of that same ancestress that Mrs. de Barryos was thinking as she sat there beside the window, her eyes mechanically following the flitting movements of a graceful form in the garden that was bending above the roses.
And surely the girl was beautiful enough to look upon.
It might have been easy enough to believe that there was the blood of an Indian flowing through her veins, for the clear olive complexion, the inky blackness of the hair, which still was not straight, the touch of crimson in the cheeks, and the great velvet eyes might have indicated it. There was a better explanation of it, however, in the fact that her father was a Mexican.
After a little she came toward the window at which her mother sat, her arms filled with the lovely crimson blossoms that fitted her dusky beauty so royally, and seated herself upon the sill of the window, dropping the roses about her in gorgeous profusion as she prepared to bind them into a bouquet.
"Aren't they exquisite?" she asked, admiringly, her voice a full, rich contralto that made music even of the most ordinary speech. "It seems to me that I never saw them so fine before."
"I wish you would put them away!" exclaimed her mother, querulously. "It seems to me, Carlita, that you are always working among the flowers, and that I never get a moment in which to speak to you."
The girl threw one swift glance of blended astonishment and reproach in her mother's direction, then rose quietly, gathered up her flowers, entered the room, and placed them upon a table, then drew a stool to her mother's feet and sat upon it.
"I am awfully sorry if I have neglected you, dearest," she said, gently. "Was there anything special that you wanted to speak to me about?"
"Yes, there is," returned the plaintive voice. "There is something I want to tell you. I have just had a letter from—from Jessica."
"Well?"