dejection coming from the defeat of his perverted ideas, he took more
than ever to music. He had but one joy left him. Leonora loved music as
much as he. She learned her lessons rapidly; and soon could accompany
her father's violoncello on the piano. They would spend the days playing
together, going through the whole pile of music sheets they kept stored
in the attic along with those accursed medical books. Besides, the
little girl showed she had a voice, and it seemed to grow fuller and
more beautiful every day. 'She will be a singer, a great singer,' her
father proclaimed enthusiastically. And when some tenant of his or one
of his dependents came into the house and could hardly believe his ears
at the sweetness of the little angel's voice, the Doctor would rub his
hands and gleefully exclaim: 'What do you think of the little lady,
eh?... Some day people in Alcira will be proud she was born here.'"

Don Andrés paused to sift his recollections, and after a long silence
added:

"The truth is, I can't tell you any more. At that time, we were in power
again, and I had very little to do with the Doctor. We gradually lost
sight of him, forgot him, practically. The music we heard when going by
the house was all there was to remind us of him. We learned one day,
through his sister, doña Pepa, that he had gone way off with the little
girl somewhere--what was that city you visited, Rafael?--Milan, yes,
Milan, that's it! I've been told that's the market for singers. He
wanted his Leonora to become a prima donna. He never came back, poor
fellow!... Things must have gone badly with them. Every year he would
write home to his sister to sell another piece of land. It is known that
over there they lived in real poverty. In a few years the little fortune
the Doctor got from his parents was gone. Poor doña Pepa, kind old soul,
even disposed of the house--which belonged half to the Doctor and half