CHAPTER III.


A year passed away, and the early Southern spring had again returned
with flowers and fragrance. After a day in music and embroidery, with
sundry games at Battledoor and The Graces with her sister, Floracita
heard the approaching footsteps of her father, and, as usual, bounded
forth to meet him. Any one who had not seen him since he parted from
the son of his early New England friend would have observed that he
looked older and more careworn; but his daughters, accustomed to see
him daily, had not noticed the gradual change.

"You have kept us waiting a little, Papasito," said Rosabella, turning
round on the music-stool, and greeting him with a smile.

"Yes, my darling," rejoined he, placing his hand fondly on her head.
"Getting ready to go to Europe makes a deal of work."

"If we were sons, we could help you," said Rosabella.

"I wish you _were_ sons!" answered he, with serious emphasis and a
deep sigh.

Floracita nestled close to him, and, looking up archly in his face,
said, "And pray what would you do, papa, without your nightingale and
your fairy, as you call us?"

"Sure enough, what _should_ I do, my little flower?" said he, as with
a loving smile he stooped to kiss her.