crone, holding a mass of grunting lace. I stood at the foot of the
bed, admiring the picture.

"Be careful for the sun, Tomasa," said the mother. "Her eyes must be
strong, like the Alvarados',--black and keen and strong."

"Sure, señora."

"And let her not smother, nor yet take cold. She must grow tall and
strong,--like the Alvarados."

"Sure, señora."

"Where is his Excellency?"

"I am here." And Alvarado entered the room. He looked amused, and
probably had overheard the conversation. He justified, however, the
admiration of his young wife. His tall military figure had the perfect
poise and suggestion of power natural to a man whose genius had
been recognized by the Mexican government before he had entered his
twenties. The clean-cut face, with its calm profile and fiery
eyes, was not that of the Washington of his emulation, and I never
understood why he chose so tame a model. Perhaps because of the
meagerness of that early proscribed literature; or did the title
"Father of his Country" appeal irresistibly to that lofty and doomed
ambition?

He passed his hand over his wife's long white fingers, but did not
offer her any other caress in my presence.