But Victor was not satisfied with this proof of his niece’s skill.  “Say to her,” he demanded of Miguel, “what name thou likest, and it shall be done before thee here.”  Miguel was not so much in love but he perceived the drift of Victor’s suggestion, and remarked that the rubric of Governor Micheltorena was exceedingly complicated and difficult.  “She shall do it!” responded Victor, with decision.

From a file of old departmental papers the Governor’s signature and that involved rubric, which must have cost his late Excellency many youthful days of anxiety, was produced and laid before Carmen.

Carmen took her pen in her hand, looked at the brownish-looking document, and then at the virgin whiteness of the foolscap before her.  “But,” she said, pouting prettily, “I should have to first paint this white paper brown.  And it will absorb the ink more quickly than that.  When I painted the San Antonio of the Mission San Gabriel for Father Acolti, I had to put the decay in with my oils and brushes before the good Padre would accept it.”

The two scamps looked at each other.  It was their supreme moment.  “I think I have,” said Victor, with assumed carelessness, “I think I have some of the old Custom-House paper.”  He produced from the secretary a sheet of brown paper with a stamp.  “Try it on that.”

Carmen smiled with childish delight, tried it, and produced a marvel!  “It is as magic,” said Miguel, feigning to cross himself.

Victor’s role was more serious.  He affected to be deeply touched, took the paper, folded it, and placed it in his breast.  “I shall make a good fool of Don Jose Castro,” he said; “he will declare it is the Governor’s own signature, for he was his friend; but have a care, Carmen! that you spoil it not by the opening of your red lips.  When he is fooled, I will tell him of this marvel,—­this niece of mine, and he shall buy her pictures.  Eh, little one?” and he gave her the avuncular caress, i. e., a pat of the hand on either cheek, and a kiss.  Miguel envied him, but cupidity outgeneraled Cupid, and presently the conversation flagged, until a convenient recollection of Victor’s—­that himself and comrade were due at the Posada del Toros at 10 o’clock—­gave them the opportunity to retire.  But not without a chance shot from Carmen.  “Tell to me,” she said, half to Victor and half to Miguel, “what has chanced with Concho?  He was ever ready to bring to me flowers from the mountain, and insects and birds.  Thou knowest how he would sit, oh, my uncle, and talk to me of the rare rocks he had seen, and the bears and the evil spirits, and now he comes no longer, my Concho!  How is this?  Nothing evil has befallen him, surely?” and her drooping lids closed half-pathetically.

Miguel’s jealousy took fire.  “He is drunk, Senorita, doubtless, and has forgotten not only thee but, mayhap, his mule and pack!  It is his custom, ha! ha!”

The red died out of Carmen’s ripe lips, and she shut them together with a snap like a steel purse.  The dove had suddenly changed to a hawk; the child-girl into an antique virago; the spirit hitherto dimly outlined in her face, of some shrewish Garcia ancestress, came to the fore.  She darted a quick look at her uncle, and then, with her little hands on her rigid lips, strode with two steps up to Miguel.