na,
the most enchanting, the most distinguished! He sends me messages,--no
matter about those; but think of this: he is leaving Havana, he is
coming to New York, he will be in this country! Marguerite! think of
it!"

"What shall I think of it?" asked Margaret, raising her eyes to her
cousin's; the gray eyes were cool and tranquil, but the dark ones were
full of fire and light.

"Is he a friend of your father's, too, Rita?"

Rita's face darkened. "My father!" she cried impatiently. "My father is
a knight of the middle ages; he demands the stiff behaviour of fifty in
a youth of twenty-one. He, who has forgotten what youth is!" She was
silent for a moment, but the shadow remained on her beautiful face.

"After all, it is no matter," she said, rising abruptly; "I was
mistaken, Marguerite. The letter is for me alone; you would not care for
it,--perhaps not understand it. You, too, have the cold Northern blood.
Forget what I have said."

"Oh, but, my dear," cried Margaret, fearful of losing her slight hold on
this creature of moods, "don't be so unkind! I want to know why they
must sit in the house all day, and what they do from morning till night.
I have always longed to know about the life you live at home. Be good
now, wild bird, and perch again."

Rita wavered, but when Margaret laid her cool, firm hand on hers, she
sank down again, though she still looked dissatisfied.

"We sit in the house," she said, "of course, in the heats,--what else
could we do? Only at night is it possible to go out. No, we do not read
much. It is too hot to read, and Cuban women do not care for books; oh,
a romance now and then; but for great, horrible books like those you
_raffole_ about downstairs there,--" she shook her shoulders as if
shaking off a heavy weight. "We sew a great deal, embroider, do
lace-work like that you admired. Then at noon we sleep as long as
possible, and in the evening we go out to walk, drive, ride. To walk in
the orange-groves by moonlight,--ah! that is heaven! One night last
month we slipped out, Conchita and I, and--you must never breathe this,
Marguerite--and met my brother and Fernando beneath the great
orange-tree in the south grove--"

"Your brother!" exclaimed Margaret. "You never told me you had a
brother, Rita!"

"Hush! I have so much the habit of silence about him. He is with the
army. My father is a Spaniard. Carlos and I are Cubans." Her eyes
flashed, and she looked like the spirit of battle.