e. Without her life
would be a dreary penance; with her a much worse place than Quipai would
be an earthly paradise.

But would she have me? The abbe seemed to think so. Nevertheless, I felt
by no means sure about it. True, she appeared to like my company. But that
might be because I had so much to tell her that was strange and new; and
though I had observed her narrowly, I had detected none of that charming
self-consciousness, that tender confusion, those stolen glances, whereby
the conventional lover gauges his mistress's feelings, and knows before he
speaks that his love is returned. Angela was always the same--frank, open,
and joyous, and, except that her caresses were reserved for him, made no
difference between the abbe and me.

"A _chirimoya_ for your thoughts, senor!" said a well-known voice, in
musical Castilian. "For these three minutes I have been standing close by
you, with this freshly gathered chirimoya, and you took no notice of me."

"A thousand pardons and a thousand thanks, senorita!" I answered, taking
the proffered fruit. "But my thoughts were worth all the chirimoyas in the
world, delicious as they are, for they were of you."

"We were thinking of each other then."

"What! Were you thinking of me?"

"_Si, senor._"

"And what were you thinking, senorita?"

"That God was very good in sending you to Quipai."

"Why?"

"For several reasons."

"Tell me them."

"Because you have done the abbe good. Aforetime he was often sad. You
remember his saying that he had cares. I know not what, but now he seems
himself again."

"Anything else?"

"_Si, senor._ You have also increased my happiness. Not that I was unhappy
before, for, thanks to the dear abbe, my life has been free from sorrow;
but during the last month--since you came--I have been more than happy, I
have been joyous."

"You don't want me to go, then?"

"O senor! Want you to go! How can you--what have I done or said?"
exclaimed the girl, impetuously and almost indignantly. "Surely, sir, you
are not tired of us already?"

"Heaven forbid! If you want me to stay I shall not go. It is for you to
decide. _Angela mia_, it depends on you whether I go away soon--how or
whither I know not--or stay here all my life long."

"Depends on me! Then, sir, I bid you stay."

"Oh, Angela, you must say more than that. You must consent to become my
wife; then do with me what you will."

"Your wife! You ask me to become your wife?"

"Yes, Angela.