Consuelo sat opposite Steven, alone; chaperoned, but not too well. She looked timidly at the big fellow standing astride the buffalo rug before the fire. He had grown taller since she last saw him and had filled out with muscle. Consuelo felt no longer that sense of power which always had made her mistress of a situation. She was trembling. Steven came over to her bench and stood beside it, looking down upon her. “May I sit beside you, señorita?” She made room for him and they looked into the fire for a space. “I have come, as you know, from Don Tiburcio and the Señora Garcia,” he began at length, awkwardly. “My countrywoman told me how kind you were to her while she was ill.” “We did very little,” Consuelo murmured. “We owed her a great deal more.” Neither of them spoke, embarrassment tying their tongues, then Consuelo echoed softly, “And we owe you still more.” They both looked up to where above the mantel Don Anabel’s prized painting hung. The old master stood forth with great beauty against the austere whiteness of the wall. This brought Steven to the point. “Señorita”--he looked directly at her--“you did not think, after I left, that I had anything to do with the disappearance of your father’s painting?” “No, no, Señor, Ess-tevan. How could I? Had I not known you in the least I could not have thought such a thing, when you were going off so magnificently to save the Americans.” “Nor when I came back with the painting and your father thought I had surely got possession of it somehow and taken it away?” He leaned toward her, his eyes eager, his whole attitude one of waiting to hear her defense of him. He laid a hand over hers. Happiness swam before him. Dared he take her in his arms, here? “No, no, if you had not taken it you had not. Because you brought it back proved nothing but your generous service. I would never have believed such a thing. Besides, I _knew_, Ess-tevan, that _you_ could not have taken it, for I saw another do that, though at the time I did not know what was being taken.” “You saw--another?” Steven faltered, in surprise. “But you did not tell your father, when there was all this talk, after I left, that I was the thief?” The words fell in complete silence. Consuelo looked away, her face burning. No words came to her, now that the fearful moment had come. This was not going as she had dreamed, this meeting. For months she had prayed just to have the chance to ask forgiveness of Steven for her proud manner on the night that she had sent Steven off on his journey. And not a word of his love had he mentioned. Did he not care any more whether or no she loved him? He was looking at her now with hurt surprise.