“No indeed!” exclaimed Rosa.  But, looking up, she met his eye, and blushed crimson.  She was conscious of having already listened to flattery that was at least more intoxicating than his.  Her father noticed the rosy confusion, and felt a renewal of pain that unexpected entanglements had prevented his going to Europe months ago.  He tenderly pressed her hand, that lay upon his knee, and looked at her with troubled earnestness, as he said, “Now that you are going to make acquaintance with the world, my daughters, and without a mother to guide you, I want you to promise me that you will never believe any gentleman sincere in professions of love, unless he proposes marriage, and asks my consent.”

Rosabella was obviously agitated, but she readily replied, “Do you suppose, Papasito, that we would accept a lover without asking you about it?  When Mamita querida died, she charged us to tell you everything; and we always do.”

“I do not doubt you, my children,” he replied; “but the world is full of snares; and sometimes they are so covered with flowers, that the inexperienced slip into them unawares.  I shall try to shield you from harm, as I always have done; but when I am gone—­”

“O, don’t say that!” exclaimed Floracita, with a quick, nervous movement.

And Rosabella looked at him with swimming eyes, as she repeated, “Don’t say that, Papasito querido!”

He laid a hand on the head of each.  His heart was very full.  With solemn tenderness he tried to warn them of the perils of life.  But there was much that he was obliged to refrain from saying, from reverence for their inexperienced purity.  And had he attempted to describe the manners of a corrupt world, they could have had no realizing sense of his meaning; for it is impossible for youth to comprehend the dangers of the road it is to travel.

The long talk at last subsided into serious silence.  After remaining very still a few moments, Rosabella said softy, “Wouldn’t you like to hear some music before you go to bed, Papasito mio?”

He nodded assent, and she moved to the piano.  Their conversation had produced an unusually tender and subdued state of feeling, and she sang quietly many plaintive melodies that her mother loved.  The fountain trickling in the garden kept up a low liquid accompaniment, and the perfume of the orange-groves seemed like the fragrant breath of the tones.

It was late when they parted for the night. “Bon soir, cher papa” said Floracita, kissing her father’s hand.

“Buenas noches, Papasito querido” said Rosabella, as she touched his cheek with her beautiful lips.

There was moisture in his eyes as he folded them to his heart and said, “God bless you!  God protect you, my dear ones!” Those melodies of past times had brought their mother before him in all her loving trustfulness, and his soul was full of sorrow for the irreparable wrong he had done her children.