"Your heart will tell you, senorita."

"My heart? My father and my mother will
choose for me a husband whom I shall love as all
other women love their husbands--just enough and
no more. Then--I suppose--I shall never know?"

"Would you marry at your parents' bidding, like
a child, senorita? I do not think you would."

Concha looked at the girl in astonishment, but
with a greater astonishment she suddenly realized
that she would not. Even her little fingers stiffened
in a rush of personality, of passionate resentment
against the shackles bound by the ages about the
feminine ego. Her individuality, long budding,
burst into flower; her eyes gazed far beyond her
radiant image in the mirror with a look of terrified
but dauntless insight; then moved slowly to the girl
that sat weeping on the floor.

"I know not what thy sin was," she said musingly.
"But I have heard it said thou didst obey no law
but thine own will--and his. Why should the pun-
ishment have been so terrible? Thou hast sworn to
me thou didst not help to murder the woman."

"I cannot tell you, senorita. You will never
know anything of sin; but of love--yes, I think you
will know that, and before very long."