He introduced me to her in a manner that brought the modest flame to
my cheeks. Standing before her, he said that he had met me at the
_pulperia_ and had put to me the question which a simple old
countryman must ask of every traveller from Montevideo--What the news
was? Then, assuming a dry, satirical tone, which years of practice
would not enable me to imitate, he proceeded to give my fantastical
answer, garnished with much original matter of his own.
"Senora," I said, when he had finished, "you must not give me credit
for all you have heard from your husband. I only gave him brute wool,
and he has woven it for your delight into beautiful cloth."
"Hear him! Did I tell you what to expect, Juana?" cried the old man,
which made me blush still more.
We then settled down to _mate_ and quiet conversation. Sitting
in the kitchen on the skull of a horse--a common article of furniture
in an Oriental _rancho_--was a boy about twelve years old, one
of Lucero's grandchildren, with a very beautiful face. His feet were
bare and his clothes very poor, but his soft dark eyes and olive face
had that tender, half-melancholy expression often seen in children of
Spanish origin, which is always so strangely captivating.
"Where is your guitar, Cipriano?" said his grandfather, addressing
him, whereupon the boy rose and fetched a guitar, which he first
politely offered to me.
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