Now Don Esteban had a daughter, by name Juanita, a beautiful girl of seventeen, as fresh as a rose, and as graceful as a gazelle, a girl with whom any man might be excused for falling in love, and she showed me so much favor, and, as it seemed, took so much pleasure in my company, that only considerations of prudence and a sense of what was due to my host, and the laws of hospitality, prevented me from yielding myself a willing captive to her charms.  But as the time fixed for our departure drew near, this policy of renunciation grew increasingly difficult.  Juanita was too unsophisticated to hide her feelings, and I judged from her ways that, without in the least intending it, I had won her heart.  She became silent and preoccupied.  When I spoke of our expedition the tears would spring to her eyes, and she would question me about its dangers, say how greatly she feared we might never meet again, and how lonely she should feel when we were gone.

All this, however flattering to my amour propre, was both embarrassing and distressing, and I began seriously to doubt whether it was not my duty, the laws of hospitality to the contrary notwithstanding, to take pity on Juanita, and avow the affection which was first ripening into love.  She would be my advocate with Don Esteban, and seeing how much he had his daughter’s happiness at heart, there could be little question that he would pardon my presumption and sanction our betrothal.

Nevertheless, the preparations for our expedition went on, and the time for our departure was drawing near, when one evening, as I returned from a ride, I found Juanita alone on the veranda, gazing at the stars, and looking more than usually pensive and depressed.

“So you are still resolved to go, Senor Fortescue?” she said, with a sigh.

“I must.  One of my principal reasons for coming to South America is to make an expedition to the Andes, and I want much to travel in parts hitherto unexplored.  And who knows?  We may make great discoveries.”

“But you might stay with us a little longer.”

“I fear we have trespassed too long on your hospitality already.”

“Our hospitality is not so easily exhausted.  But, O senor, you have already stayed too long for my happiness.”

“Too long, for your happiness, senorita!  If I thought—­would you really like me to stay longer, to postpone this expedition indefinitely, or abandon it altogether?”

“Oh, so much, senor, so much.  The mere suggestion makes me almost happy again.”

“And if I make your wish my law, and say that it is abandoned, how then?”

“You will make me happier than I can tell you, and your debtor for life.”

“And why would it make you so happy, dear Juanita?” I asked, tenderly, at the same time looking into her beautiful eyes and taking her unresisting hand.

“Why!  Oh, don’t you know?  Have you not guessed?”

“I think I have; all the same, I should like the avowal from your own lips, dear Juanita.”