So Conchita--for a new name had been given to her with that
terrible sea christening--received her first lessons in Spanish;
and she proved a most intelligent pupil. Before long she could
prattle to Feliu;--she would watch for his return of evenings,
and announce his coming with "Aqui viene mi papacito?"--she
learned, too, from Carmen, many little caresses of speech to
greet him with. Feliu's was not a joyous nature; he had his dark
hours, his sombre days; yet it was rarely that he felt too sullen
to yield to the little one's petting, when she would leap up to
reach his neck and to coax his kiss, with--"Dame un beso,
papa!--asi;--y otro! otro! otro!" He grew to love her like his
own;--was she not indeed his own, since he had won her from
death? And none had yet come to dispute his claim. More and
more, with the passing of weeks, months, seasons, she became a
portion of his life--a part of all that he wrought for. At the
first, he had had a half-formed hope that the little one might be
reclaimed by relatives generous and rich enough to insist upon
his acceptance of a handsome compensation; and that Carmen could
find some solace in a pleasant visit to Barceloneta. But now he
felt that no possible generosity could requite him for her loss;
and with the unconscious selfishness of affection, he commenced
to dread her identification as a great calamity.

It was evident that she had been brought up nicely. She had
pretty prim ways of drinking and eating, queer little fashions of
sitting in company, and of addressing people. She had peculiar
notions about colors in dress, about wearing her hair; and she
seemed to have already imbibed a small stock of social prejudices
not altogether in harmony with the republicanism of Viosca's