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:
"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."