"One's a girl--that
one! She's mine!"
"Oh, ho! Leetle spitfire still!" Pancho laughed. He chucked her under her
pretty chin. "So you marry ze man I pick for you, eh? Good! An'
zis"--pointing to the baby--"zis ees better yet!"
"Look at mine!" the proud Lucia couldn't help saying. "Isn't he the image
of his father?"
She held him up, and Lopez took his little hand in his. "Yes, I see what
you mean," he said, carefully looking at the child. "Hees father's
eyes--but not so much hair! What you call heem?"
"Guess!" said Gilbert.
"Could not," the Mexican answered.
"Only one guess!" Lucia begged.
"Could not t'ink," Lopez insisted.
"Well, then--you tell him, Gilbert," the mother said, turning to her
husband.
"There could be only one name in all the world for that youngster," Gilbert
said, and put his hand affectionately on his old friend's shoulder. "You
ought to know it as well as I. Of course his name is--Pancho!"
The smile that came over the Mexican's face was beautiful to see. And was
that the suggestion of a tear in his eye?
Long and long, and while everybody in the room remained perfectly still, he
looked at the baby, whose tiny hands bobbed up and down--a fat, healthy
youngster, fit as a fiddle, laughing, squirming, happy.
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