By and by this good man, whose real name I never discovered, for his
wife simply called him Batata (sweet potato), looking critically at
his pretty girl, remarked: "Why have you decked yourself out like this,
my daughter--it is not a Saint's day?"
His daughter indeed! I mentally ejaculated; she is more like the
daughter of the evening star than of such a man. But his words were
unreasonable, to say the least of it; for the sweet child, whose name
was Margarita, though wearing shoes, had no stockings on, while her
dress--very clean, certainly--was a cotton print so faded that the
pattern was quite undistinguishable. The only pretence of finery of
any description was a narrow bit of blue ribbon tied about her
lily-white neck. And yet, had she been wearing richest silks and
costliest gems, she could not have blushed and smiled with a prettier
confusion.
"We are expecting Uncle Anselmo this evening, _papita_," she replied.
"Leave the child, Batata," said the mother. "You know what a craze she
has for Anselmo: when he comes she is always prepared to receive him
like a queen."
This was really almost too much for me, and I was powerfully tempted
to jump up and embrace the whole family on the spot. How sweet was
this primitive simplicity of mind! Here, doubtless, was the one spot
on the wide earth where the golden age still lingered, appearing like
the last beams of the setting sun touching some prominent spot, when
elsewhere all things are in shadow.
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