almost lover-like familiarity with the young lady, and nevertheless the
poor mother and niece visited the house as little as possible. It is to
be observed that Maria Remedios' dignity as a lady suffered not a little
in Dona Perfecta's house, and this was disagreeable to her; for in this
sighing spirit, too, there was, as there is in every living thing, a
little pride. To see her son married to Rosarito, to see him rich and
powerful; to see him related to Dona Perfecta, to the senora--ah! this
was for Maria Remedios earth and heaven, this life and the next, the
present and the future, the supreme totality of existence. For years
her mind and her heart had been filled by the light of this sweet hope.
Because of this hope she was good and she was bad; because of it she
was religious and humble, or fierce and daring; because of it she was
whatever she was--for without this idea Maria, who was the incarnation
of her project, would not exist.

In person, Maria Remedios could not be more insignificant than she was.
She was remarkable for a surprising freshness and robustness which made
her look much younger than she really was, and she always dressed in
mourning, although her widowhood was now of long standing.

Five days had passed since the entrance of Caballuco into the
Penitentiary's house. It was evening. Remedios entered her uncle's room
with the lighted lamp, which she placed on the table. She then seated
herself in front of the old man, who, for a great part of the afternoon,
had been sitting motionless and thoughtful in his easy chair. His
fingers supported his chin, wrinkling up the brown skin, unshaven for
the past three days.

"Did Caballuco say he would come here to supper to-night?" he asked his
niece.