"No, no, Don Mike," he heard a sweet voice protesting; "somebody else
cares, too. We wouldn't be human if we didn't. Please--please try not
to feel so badly about it."
He raised his haggard face.
"Ah, yes--you!" he cried. "You--you've been waiting here--for me?"
"Yes. I wanted to tell you--to explain before you got to the house.
We didn't know, you see--and the notice was so terribly short; but
we'll go in the morning. I've saved dinner for you, Don Mike--and your
old room is ready for you. Oh, you don't know how sorry I am for you,
you poor man!"
He hid his face again.
"Don't--please!" he cried, in a choked voice. "I can't stand
sympathy--to-night--from you!"
She laid a hand on his shoulder.
"Come, come; you must buck up, old soldier," she assured him. "You'll
have to meet Pablo and Carolina very soon."
"I'm so alone and desperate," he muttered, through clenched teeth.
"You can't--realize what this means--to me. My father was an old
man--he had--accomplished his years--and I weep for him, because I
loved--him. But oh, my home--this--dear land--"
He choked, and, in that moment, she forgot that this man was a stranger
to her. She only knew that he had been stricken, that he was helpless,
that he lacked the greatest boon of the desolate--a breast upon which
he might weep. Gently she lifted the black head and drew it down on
her shoulder; her arm went round his neck and patted his cheek, and his
full heart was emptied.
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