After being introduced to the other ladies and to two or three men who were present, and after a cordial exchange of greetings with Don Gregorio Lopez and Lieutenant Gordon, Marcelino drew forward a heavy, straight-backed chair, the seat of which was of embossed leather, and placed himself in front of his aunt, whom he had not seen for several years, Don Fausto having resided for that time on his estancia in consequence of some trouble he had had with the Spanish authorities of Buenos Aires. For Don Fausto, though a Creole, was a proud man and a wealthy, and thought himself the equal of any Spaniard, an idea which in those days was apt to bring any free-spoken Creole into trouble. The other men were mostly walking about, sucking mate when their turn came, and occasionally addressing a few words to one or other of the ladies, but the conversation was far from animated. Other than the cushioned estrade on which the ladies were seated, the room was very bare of furniture, a couple of small tables and a few high-backed, very uncomfortable-looking chairs comprised the whole of it; but upon the walls hung some very choice paintings, several of which were said to be the works of Velasquez, a famous Spanish painter, who was claimed by Don Fausto as one of his ancestors. The art of painting was held in small repute in Buenos Aires at that time; Don Fausto knew nothing of it, only preserved these paintings out of respect for the memory of his father, who had set great store by them, and was both surprised and pleased at the great admiration of them which was expressed by his English guest Lieutenant Gordon. He strove in vain to see any beauty in them himself, but he was proud to see them appreciated by another who came from the Old World. Marcelino talked long with his aunt, telling her of his adventures in Buenos Aires during the English occupation. As he told of the affair at Perdriel and of the defeat of the English on the 12th August, she caught up her little son in her arms, pressing him to her bosom with unwonted animation, saying as she caressed him: "Ah, Justiniano, my little son! your mother will take better care of you, she will never let you run away from her, nor fight fierce soldiers who come over the sea!" "The soldiers, mamita!" said the boy laughing, and patting her cheek with his little hand; "I have never seen a soldier, but when I am big like this one then I will put myself to kill the English. All of them, mamita, all of them." As he said this he struggled from his mother's arms, and rolling over a cushion, clambered down from the estrade, and running up to Lieutenant Gordon clenched his little fist and struck him on the leg. "This is one," he said; "some day when I am big I will kill you." Marcelino rose hurriedly from his chair, and Don Fausto walked quickly to the spot with a look of great annoyance on his face, but Gordon stooping down to the boy lifted him up in his arms and kissed him, saying with a merry laugh: