The shadows were growing long when Agueda cantered down the path that ran alongside of the banana walk. She crossed the potrero at a slow pace, for CastaÑo was tired and warm. As she slowly rounded the corner of the veranda, a figure caught her eye. It was Don Beltran, cool and immaculate in his white linen suit. He was smoking, and seemed to be enjoying the sunset hour.

"Ah! are you here at last, child! I was just about to send your uncle to look for you. Have you had dinner?"

"Not a mouthful," laughed Agueda, at the remembrance of the SeÑora at El Cuco. It was cruel to laugh while Aneta wept, but it was so hard not to be happy.

"Tell Juana to bring you some dinner. There was a san coche, very good, and a pilauf of chicken. Did you see Don Mateo?"

"No, SeÑor," said Agueda, looking down.

"Why will you persist in calling me SeÑor, Agueda? I am Beltran. Say it at once—Beltran!"

"Beltran," said Agueda, with a happy smile. Poor Aneta! Poor everybody in the world who did not have a Beltran to love her!

As Agueda told Beltran the history of her long day, he listened with interest. When she spoke of Aneta's changed life, "The brute!" said Beltran, "the damned brute!"

While Agueda was changing her dress for the dark blue skirt and white waist, Beltran sat and thought upon the veranda. When she came out again, he spoke.

"Agueda," said he, "it is time that you and I were married."

Agueda blushed.

"I see no cause for haste," said Agueda.

"It is right," said Beltran, "and why should we wait? What is there to wait for? I want you for my wife. I have never seen any one who could take me from you, and there is no such person in all the world. All the same, you must be my wife."

"I think the padre is away," said Agueda, looking down.

"He will be back before long, and then, if the river is still low, we will go to Haldez some fine morning and be married. Your uncle can give you away. He will be very glad, doubtless!" Don Beltran laughed as he spoke. He was not unconscious of Uncle Adan's plans, but as they happened to fall in with his own, he took them good-naturedly.

"Do you know, Agueda," he said presently, looking steadily at her, "that you are better born than I?"

"What does the SeÑor mean?" laughed Agueda.

"The SeÑor?"

"Well, then, SeÑor—Beltran. What do you mean by that?"

"I mean what I say, Agueda. Your grandfather, Don Estevan, is a count in his own country—in old Spain. That is where you get your pretty slim figure, child, your height, and your arched instep. You are descended from a long line of noble ladies, Agueda. I have seen many a Spanish gran' SeÑora darker than you, my Agueda. When shall our wedding-day be, child?"

Agueda shook her head and looked down at the little garment which she was stitching. She had no wish to bind him. That was not the way to treat a noble nature like his. Agueda had no calculation in her composition. Beltran could never love her better were they fifty times married. She was happy as the day. What could make her more so?

"Did the SeÑor enjoy his sail across the bay?" asked Agueda.

"It was well enough, child. I got the draft cashed, and, strange to say, I found a letter at the post-office at Saltona."

"From the coffee merchant, I suppose, SeÑor?"

"No, not from the coffee merchant, SeÑora," Beltran laughed, teasingly. "Guess from whom, Agueda; but how should you be able to guess? It is from my uncle, Agueda. My mother's brother. You know that he married in the States."

"I have heard the SeÑor say that the SeÑor his uncle married in the es-States," said Agueda, threading her fine needle with care, and making a tiny knot. Beltran drew his chair close. He twitched the small garment from her hands. She uttered a slight exclamation. The needle had pricked her finger. Beltran bent towards her with remorseful words, took the slender finger between his own, and put it to his lips. His other hand lay upon her shoulder. She smiled up at him with a glance of inquiry mixed with shyness. Agueda had never got over her shy little manner. The pressure of his fingers upon her shoulder thrilled her. She felt as ever that dear sense of intimacy which usage had not dulled.

Beltran again consulted the letter which he held.

"Uncle NÓe will arrive in a week's time," he said. "He is a very particular gentleman, is my Uncle NÓe. Quite young to be my uncle. Look at my two grey hairs, Agueda."

She released her hand from his, and tried to twist her short hair into a knot. It looked much more womanly so. She must try to make it grow if a new grand SeÑor was coming to San Isidro. Don Beltran was still consulting the letter.

"He brings his child—his little daughter. Now, Agueda, how can we amuse the little thing?"

Agueda, with work dropped, finger still pressed between her small white teeth, answered, wonderingly:

"A little child? Let me think, SeÑor."

"Ah!"

"Well, then, again I say Beltran, if you will. We have not much." How dear and natural the plural of the personal pronoun! "We have not much, I fear. There is the little cart that the SeÑora gave the SeÑor when he was muchachito. That is a good little plaything. I have cleaned it well since the last flood. The water washed even into the cupboard. Then there is—there is—ah, yes, the diamond cross. She will laugh, the little thing, when it flashes in the sunshine. Children love brilliant things. I remember well that the little Cristina, from the conuco, up there, used to love to see the sparkle of the jewels. But the little one will like the toy best."

"That is not much, dear heart."

"And then—and then—there may be rides on the bulls, and punting on the river in the flatboat, and the little chestnut—she can ride CastaÑo, the little thing!"

"Not the chestnut; I trained him for you, Agueda, child."

"And why should not the little one ride him, also? We can take her into the deep woods to gather the mamey apples, and to the bushes down in the river pasture to gather the aguacate. Only the little thing must be taught to keep away from the prickly branches, and—sometimes, Don—Beltran, we might take the child as far as Haldez, if some acrobats or circus men should arrive. We have not been there since Dondy-Jeem walked the rope that bright Sunday. Oh, yes! we shall find something to amuse her, certainly. A little child! We are to have a child in the house!" It was always a happy "we" with Agueda. "How old is the little thing?"

"I have not heard from my uncle for many years. I do not know when he married; but he is a young man still, Uncle NÓe. Full of affectation, speaking French in preference to Spanish and English, which are equally his mother tongues—I might say his mother and father tongue—but with all his affectations, delightful."

"A little child in the house! A little child in the house," murmured Agueda over and over to herself.

Now it was all bustle at the casa. San Isidro took on a holiday air. There was no more talk of marriage. Not because Don Beltran did not think of it and wish it, but because there was no time. A room down the veranda must be beautified for the little child. She was to be placed next her father, that if she should want anything at night, he could attend her.

"Where shall we put the nurse?" said Don Beltran.

"I am afraid the nurse will have to sleep in the rancho, Beltran. These two rooms take all that we have." Agueda looked up wistfully. "I wonder how soon she will come," she said. "The little thing! the little thing!"

---