“Christine,” I said, “do you remember the fate of the proud girl who walked upon bread?”

“You think that I may starve for kisses some time?” said my friend, going on with the wiping.

“Not while I am alive,” called out Edward from behind.  His style of courtship was of the sledge-hammer sort sometimes.  But he did not get much for it on that day; only lofty tolerance, which seemed to amuse him greatly.

Edward played with Felipa very much as if she was a rubber toy or a trapeze performer.  He held her out at arm’s length in mid-air, he poised her on his shoulder, he tossed her up into the low myrtle trees, and dangled her by her little belt over the claret-colored pools on the barren; but he could not frighten her:  she only laughed and grew wilder and wilder, like a squirrel.  “She has muscles and nerves of steel,” he said admiringly.

“Do put her down:  she is too excitable for such games,” I said in French, for Felipa seemed to divine our English now.  “See the color she has.”

For there was a trail of dark red over the child’s thin oval cheeks which made her look strangely unlike herself.  As she caught our eyes fixed upon her she suddenly stopped her climbing and came and sat at Christine’s feet.  “Some day I shall wear robes like the senora’s,” she said, passing her hand over the soft fabric; “and I think,” she added after some slow consideration, “that my face will be like the senora’s too.”

Edward burst out laughing.  The little creature stopped abruptly and scanned his face.

“Do not tease her,” I said.

Quick as a flash she veered around upon me.  “He does not tease me,” she said angrily in Spanish; “and, besides, what if he does?  I like it.”  She looked at me with gleaming eyes and stamped her foot.

“What a little tempest!” said Christine.

Then Edward, man-like, began to explain.  “You could not look much like this lady, Felipa,” he said, “because you are so dark, you know.”

“Am I dark?”

“Very dark; but many people are dark, of course; and for my part I always liked dark eyes,” said this mendacious person.

“Do you like my eyes?” asked Felipa anxiously.

“Indeed I do:  they are like the eyes of a dear little calf I once owned when I was a boy.”

The child was satisfied, and went back to her place beside Christine.  “Yes, I shall wear robes like this,” she said dreamily, drawing the flowing drapery over her knees clad in the little linen trousers, and scanning the effect:  “they would trail behind me—­so.”  Her bare feet peeped out below the hem, and again we all laughed, the little brown toes looked so comical coming out from the silk and the snowy embroideries.  She came down to reality at once, looked at us, looked at herself, and for the first time seemed to comprehend the difference.  Then suddenly she threw herself down on the ground like a little animal, and buried her head in her arms.  She would not speak, she would not look up:  she only relaxed one arm a little to take in Drollo, and then lay motionless.  Drollo looked at us out of one eye solemnly from his uncomfortable position, as much as to say, “No use:  leave her to me.”  So after a while we went away and left them there.