"Perhaps my child is not well; if so, it is unfortunate that she should have gone from home, for the good Father and Sister Francisco came at noon. While I served them with fruit and wine the Father told much of our dear Arturo, expressing often great joy that so fine a youth grows rich, soon to return to the friends who await him with so much affection. Sister Francisco was grieved that the convent is no more dear to her child. She requested that the days be few until a visit is paid, and left with her love a little gift."
As the Doña Maria paused, she arose from the table and handed Mariposilla a small religious book.
The child had controlled herself with stoical determination throughout her mother's reproachful disclosures, but, unable to do so longer, she burst into tears and fled from the room.
The calm Doña Maria took no notice of the tempestuous departure, but the grandmother appeared distressed, muttering her disapproval in Spanish.
I confess that I felt annoyed at Mariposilla's conduct. I could see no reason for the outburst of grief and felt myself an innocent agent in unsettling her happiness and disturbing her family.
After supper, when I had undressed Marjorie, who was soon asleep, and had put on a chamber gown preparatory to writing letters, a timid tap at my door told me that Mariposilla was without. So fond had I become of the child that I instantly forgot my recent resentment. Not waiting for the penitent to come to me I met her at the door. Drawing her to the couch I urged her to tell me quietly the cause of her unhappiness.
"The señora will think me unworthy of her love," she cried, chokingly.
"No, dear," I replied, "I shall always love you. I have had many sorrows myself, and I know how hard it is to speak of them; but always when I have confided in a true friend, I have felt better and sorry that I had not sought relief sooner."
"I will tell you," she said, "and then you may despise me."
She was very beautiful as she half drooped before me, her great eyes moist, her dark hair loose about her shoulders.
"Tell me all, dear child," I urged, as she still hesitated.
"I am most wicked!" she cried desperately. "I love not my people; I am unhappy because I am not an American."