disposed to laugh at her doings and sayings, though mostly meant in solemn
earnest.

"But about your affairs, my child," continued Aunt Maria, suddenly
gripping a fresh subject after her quick and startling fashion. "I don't
understand them. How is it possible? Here is a great fortune gone; gone in
a moment; gone incomprehensibly. What does it mean? Some rascality here.
Some man at the bottom of this."

"I presume my relative, Garcia, must be right," commenced Clara.

"No, he isn't," interrupted Aunt Maria. "He is wrong. Of course he's
wrong. I never knew a man yet but what he was wrong."

"You make me laugh in spite of my troubles," said Clara, laughing,
however, only through her eyes, which had great faculties for sparkling
out meanings. "But see here," she added, turning grave again, and putting
up her hand to ask attention. "Mr. Garcia tells a straight story, and
gives reasons enough. There was the war," and here she began to count on
her fingers, "That destroyed a great deal. I know when my father could
scarcely send on money to pay my bills in New York. And then there was the
signature for Señor Pedraez. And then there were the Apaches who burnt the
hacienda and drove off the cattle. And then he--"

Her voice faltered and she stopped; she could not say, "He died."

"My poor, dear child!" sighed Aunt Maria, walking up to the girl and
caressing her with a tenderness which was all womanly.

"That seems enough," continued Clara, when she could speak again. "I