"You don't know! I am not.... Give me time, master. Here, here, girl,
you must, you shall, all must not be over!"

He had opened his arms wide, and now hastily approached her with the
eager look of the gambler, who has staked his last penny on a card.

Coello's daughter did not obey.

She was no longer little, unassuming Belita; here stood no child, but a
beautiful, blooming maiden. In eighteen months her figure had gained
height; anxious yearning and constant contention with her mother had
wasted her superabundance of flesh; her face had become oval, her bearing
self-possessed. Her large, clear eyes now showed their full beauty, her
half-developed features had acquired exquisite symmetry, and her raven-
black hair floated, like a shining ornament, around her pale, charming
face.

"Happy will be the man, who is permitted to call this woman his own!"
cried a voice in the youth's breast, but another voice whispered "Lost,
lost, forfeited, trifled away!"

Why did she not obey his call? Why did she not rush into his open arms?
Why, why?

He clenched his fists, bit his lips, for she did not stir, except to
press closely to her father's side.

This handsome, splendidly-dressed gentleman, with the pointed beard,
deep-set eyes, and stern, gloomy gaze, was an entirely different person
from the gay enthusiastic follower of art, for whom her awakening heart