"
"Oh, you think it pretty? Then you _must_ let me out. I have put
up my hair now, and look prettier than when you saw me."
"You look prettier with it down," I answered.
"Ah, down it goes again then!" she exclaimed.--"Yes, you are right,
it does look best that way. Is it not like silk? You shall feel it
when you liberate me."
"That I cannot do, Cleta mine. Your Antonio has taken away the key."
"Oh, cruel man! He left me no water, and I am perishing with thirst.
What shall I do? Look, I will put my hand under the door for you to
feel how hot it is; I am consumed with fever and thirst in this oven."
Presently her little brown hand came out at my feet, there being
sufficient space between the floor and wood to pass it through. I
stooped and took it in mine, and found it a hot, moist little hand,
with a pulse beating very fast.
"Poor child!" I said, "I will pour some water in a plate and pass it
to you under the door."
"Oh, you are bad to insult me!" she cried. "What, am I a cat to drink
water from a plate? I could cry my eyes out"; here followed sob-like
sounds. "Besides," she suddenly resumed, "it is fresh air, not water,
I require. I am suffocated, I cannot breathe. Oh, dear friend, save
me from fainting. Force back the door till the bolt slips out."
"No, no, Cleta, it cannot be done."
"What, with your strength! I could almost do it myself with my poor
little hands.
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