delicate comeliness--totally unlike the robust beauty of Concha
... At intervals she would moan a little between her sobs; and at
last cried out, with a thin, shrill cry: "Maman!--oh! maman!"
Then Carmen lifted her from the bed to her lap, and caressed her,
and rocked her gently to and fro, as she had done many a night
for Concha,--murmuring,--"Yo sere tu madre, angel mio, dulzura
mia;--sere tu madrecita, palomita mia!" (I will be thy mother, my
angel, my sweet;--I will be thy little mother, my doveling.) And
the long silk fringes of the child's eyes overlapped, shadowed
her little cheeks; and she slept--just as Conchita had slept long
ago,--with her head on Carmen's bosom.

Feliu re-appeared at the inner door: at a sign, he approached
cautiously, without noise, and looked.

--"She can talk," whispered Carmen in Spanish: "she called her
mother"--ha llamado a su madre.

--"Y Dios tambien la ha llamado," responded Feliu, with rude
pathos;--"And God also called her."

--"But the Virgin sent us the child, Feliu,--sent us the child
for Concha's sake."

He did not answer at once; he seemed to be thinking very
deeply;--Carmen anxiously scanned his impassive face.

--"Who knows?" he answered, at last;--"who knows? Perhaps she
has ceased to belong to any one else."