“That God was very good in sending you to Quipai.”

“Why?”

“For several reasons.”

“Tell me them.”

“Because you have done the abbe good.  Aforetime he was often sad.  You remember his saying that he had cares.  I know not what, but now he seems himself again.”

“Anything else?”

“Si, senor. You have also increased my happiness.  Not that I was unhappy before, for, thanks to the dear abbe, my life has been free from sorrow; but during the last month—­since you came—­I have been more than happy, I have been joyous.”

“You don’t want me to go, then?”

“O senor!  Want you to go!  How can you—­what have I done or said?” exclaimed the girl, impetuously and almost indignantly.  “Surely, sir, you are not tired of us already?”

“Heaven forbid!  If you want me to stay I shall not go.  It is for you to decide. Angela mia, it depends on you whether I go away soon—­how or whither I know not—­or stay here all my life long.”

“Depends on me!  Then, sir, I bid you stay.”

“Oh, Angela, you must say more than that.  You must consent to become my wife; then do with me what you will.”

“Your wife!  You ask me to become your wife?”

“Yes, Angela.  I have loved you since the day we first met; every day my love grows stronger and deeper, and unless you love me in return, and will be my wife, I cannot stay; I must go—­go at once.”

“Quipai, senor,” said Angela, archly, at the same time giving me her hand.

“Quipai!  I don’t quite understand—­unless you mean—­”

“Quipai,” she repeated, her eyes brightening into a merry smile.

“Unless you mean—­”

“Quipai.”

“Oh, how dull I am!  I see now.  Quipai—­rest here.”

“Si, senor.”

“And if I rest here, you will—­”

“Do as you wish, senor, and with all my heart; for as you love me, so I love you.”

“Dearest Angela!” I said, kissing her hand, “you make me almost too happy.  Never will I leave Quipai without you.”

“And never will I leave it without you.  But let us not talk of leaving Quipai.  Where can we be happier than here with the dear abbe?  But what will he say?”

“He will give us his blessing.  His most ardent wish is that I should be your husband and his successor.”

“How good he is?  And I, wicked girl that I am, repay his goodness with base ingratitude.  Ah me!  How shall I tell him?”

“You repay his goodness with base ingratitude?  You speak in riddles, my Angela.”

“Since the waves washed me to his feet, a little child, the abbe has cherished me with all the tenderness of a mother, all the devotion of a father.  He has been everything to me; and now you are everything to me.  I love you better than I love him.  Don’t you think I am a wicked girl?” And she put her arm within mine, and looking at me with love-beaming eyes, caressing my cheek with her hand.