And sure enough, on a steed that looked like Sunday afternoon, with brand-new reins and bit, and in a suit that fit him to perfection, with gleaming spurs and shining buttons, the rakish and indomitable Pancho, his long-lost friend, returned to greet him. He could scarcely believe it. For since that memorable night when he had left them, to return to the interior of Mexico, never a word had he had from him. Meantime, the great happiness had come to him; and when the baby came into the world, he and Lucia had not forgotten the man who had been responsible for their joy. With one accord they named the boy Pancho. There was not the slightest doubt but that should be what he should be called. The only tragedy was that they had no way of letting the bandit know what they had done. Where was he? They did not know. When, if ever, would he return? They had no way of finding out. There was but one thing to do--wait. And they did. But often Gilbert had said to Lucia, "He has forgotten us, though we have never forgotten him--our friend." Now, in the quiet, brooding autumn dusk he came to their doorstep, dismounted, lifted his hat, smiled that wonderful smile of his, and made a bow that any courtier might have been proud to make. Behind him, on a brown horse, was Pedro, his lieutenant--the same monosyllabic Pedro, faithful unto death, and now as clean as a whistle. "Ah! my frand!" Pancho said, as he bowed again, "How glad am I to see you. You glad to see me, too, eh?" Lucia also had come to the door; likewise Angela--but the latter was still a bit timid. Even Uncle Henry pushed his way to the sill, and sat like a lonely man in a gallery while those in the orchestra pressed about their favorite actor. "Glad?" exclaimed Gilbert. "I could kiss you, Pancho! But where on earth have you been? Come in, and tell us everything." He needed no urging. "Hongry as beeg bear!" he told them. "Then sit right down," Lucia said, "There's plenty--far more than the last time you were here!" And they all laughed. He came into the room, while Pedro took care of the horses. "Hallo, Oncle Hennery," he greeted the old man in the wheel chair. "You look splendid! And 'allo, 'Red,'--zat's what zey call you--yes?" Then he saw the babies, and his eyes fairly popped from his head, "Well, well!" he cried, "Who 'ave zese leetle fellers!" "They're not both fellers!" Angela made bold to say. "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.