This mysterious, severe understanding between the father and the child affected me painfully; I was at a loss to surmise its nature, whence it proceeded, or how it could be; for Ferdy evinced in his every word, look, movement, an undivided fondness for his father.  And in his tender-proud allusions to the boy, at times let fall to me,—­in the anxious watchfulness with which he followed him with his eye, when an interval of peace and comparative happiness had set childhood’s spirit free, and lent a degree of graceful gayety to all his motions,—­I saw the brimming measure of the father’s love.  Could it be but his morbidly repellant pride, his jealous guarding of the domestic privacies, his vigilant pacing up and down forever before the close-drawn curtain of the heart?—­was there no Bluebeard’s chamber there?  No!  Pride was all the matter,—­pride was the Spartan fox that tore the vitals of Pintal, while he but bit his lips, and bowed, and passed.

Among the pictures in Pintal’s tent was one which had in an especial manner attracted my attention.  It was a cabinet portrait, nearly full-length, of a venerable gentleman, of grave but benevolent aspect, and an air of imposing dignity.  Care had evidently been taken to render faithfully the somewhat remarkable vigor of his frame; his iron-gray hair was cropped quite short, and he wore a heavy grizzled moustache, but no other beard; the lines of his mouth were not severe, and his eye was soft and gentle.  But what made the portrait particularly noticeable was the broad red ribbon of a noble order crossing the breast, and a Maltese cross suspended from the neck by a short chain of massive and curiously wrought links.  I had many times been on the point of asking the name of this singularly handsome and distinguished-looking personage; but an instinctive feeling of delicacy always deterred me.

One day I found little Ferdy alone, and singing merrily some pretty Spanish song.  I told him I was rejoiced to find him in such good spirits, and asked him if he had not been having a jolly romp with the American carpenter’s son, who lived in the Chinese house close by.  My question seemed to afflict him with puzzled surprise;—­he half smiled, as if not quite sure but I might be jesting.

“Oh, no, indeed!  I have never played with him; I do not know him; I never play with any boys here.  Oh, no, indeed!”

“But why not, Ferdy?  What! a whole month in this tiresome tent, and not make the acquaintance of your nearest neighbor,—­such a sturdy, hearty chunk of a fellow as that is?—­I have no doubt he’s good-natured, too, for he’s fat and funny, tough and independent.  Besides, he’s a carpenter’s son, you know; so there’s a chance to borrow a saw to make the dog-house with.  Who knows but his father will take a fancy to you,—­I’m sure he is very likely to,—­and make you a church dog-house, steeple and all complete and painted, and much finer than Charley Saunders’s martin-box?”