trembled with an iron rumble, and the Estacion del Mediodia,
illuminated by arc lamps, came into view.

The travellers got out; Manuel descended with his little bundle of
clothes in his hand, looked in every direction for a glimpse of his
mother and could not make her out anywhere on the wide platform. For a
moment he was confused, then decided to follow the throng that was
hurrying with bundles and bird-cages toward a gate; he was asked for
his ticket, he stopped to go through his pockets, found it and issued
into the street between two rows of porters who were yelling the names
of hotels.

"Manuel! Where are you going?"

There was his mother. Petra had meant to be severe; but at the sight
of her son she forgot her severity and embraced him effusively.

"But--what happened?" Petra asked at once.

"Nothing."

"Then--why have you come?"

"They asked me whether I wanted to stay there or go to Madrid, and I
said I'd rather go to Madrid."

"Nothing more?"

"Nothing more," replied Manuel simply.