Not until they reached the arbor
did she speak.
"Thank you. I think I can walk now."
He set her down and she smoothed her rumpled skirts. Then they
proceeded together slowly. Silently they followed the path which a few
hours before they had so gaily trod, and silently they ascended the
hill.
The old man and I had not yet gone to bed when they entered the house.
She came in laughing.
"Is it not early, my angel?" he asked. "It is but little past
midnight." She smiled.
"Yes, _padre_, it is early--but I--I thought I would return."
Late that night, as Henderson and I lay in bed--he telling me the
story of the evening--we could hear the girl in the next room,
sobbing, sobbing as if her heart would break. It made Henderson
uneasy.
"I'd like to do something," he said. "The scoundrel! He ought to be
whipped."
I grunted and tried to get to sleep, but it was useless. Fred was
tossing restlessly, and the girl in the other room was still sobbing,
sobbing. Suddenly there sounded a whistle, low but clear. The sobbing
ceased. The whistle sounded again.
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