both as to the character of the young lady and the competency of the
critic. I only know that I rather liked her. And her functions are
somewhat important in this veracious history.

She looked up, started to her feet, leveled her black brows at the
intruder, but, at a sign from her uncle, showed her white teeth and
spake.

It was only a sentence, and a rather common-place one at that; but if
she could have put her voice upon her canvas, she might have retrieved
the Garcia fortunes. For it was so musical, so tender, so sympathizing,
so melodious, so replete with the graciousness of womanhood, that she
seemed to have invented the language. And yet that sentence was only
an exaggerated form of the 'How d'ye do,' whined out, doled out, lisped
out, or shot out from the pretty mouths of my fair countrywomen.

Miguel admired the paintings. He was struck particularly with a crayon
drawing of a mule. "Mother of God, it is the mule itself! observe how it
will not go." Then the crafty Victor broke in with, "But it is nothing
to her writing; look, you shall tell to me which is the handwriting
of Pio Pico;" and, from a drawer in the secretary, he drew forth two
signatures. One was affixed to a yellowish paper, the other drawn on
plain white foolscap. Of course Miguel took the more modern one
with lover-like gallantry. "It is this is genuine!" Victor laughed
triumphantly; Carmen echoed the laugh melodiously in child-like glee,
and added, with a slight toss of her piquant head, "It is mine!" The
best of the sex will not refuse a just and overdue compliment from
even the man they dislike. It's the principle they're after, not the
sentiment.