I made every effort to conciliate him —"never again would his services be demanded on such a ride." I walked about the court disconsolately, talking kindly to him. Nearer and nearer he approached the door. I followed, entreating him not to go; well knowing that if I lost Cosme —and all the other mozos had gone to San Luis Potosi, or some other far-away city, to see their families,—not a shadow of opportunity remained to procure another.
An admirable feature in Cosme's composition was his love of truth. He had never heard the story of the cherry tree and the little hatchet, but his innate veracity was not to be outdone by anybody. Somehow I always felt that when Cosme did go he would express the real cause of his leaving and not quote, like his predecessors, a mythical family's imaginary demands. Nor was I mistaken. When the poor boy reached the door he halted, turned and looked mournfully at me, as though imploring me not to ask him to stay longer, while in pathetic tones he murmured, "Pos entonces yo me voy; adios, Señorita" ("Well, now, I'm going; good-by, Señorita").
He stood on the threshold, perhaps For the last time, when I again ventured to remonstrate, "Well, now, Cosme, why won't you stay?" Almost closing the heavy doors as if to prevent another appeal, and tossing his hat far back on his head, his eyes rolling, his face ashen but determined, he made the final pièce de resistance with admirable finesse. Catching the huge key and closing the door, so that he barely had a view of my face, while one foot halted on the threshold, with bent figure and eyes beaming kindly regret upon
