“Thou wilt stop this nonsense and cast no more glances at Juan Tornel!” commanded Dona Pomposa.  “Thou little brat!  Dost thou think that I am one to let my daughter marry before she can hem?  Thank God we have more sense than our mothers!  No child of mine shall marry at fifteen.  Now listen—­thou shalt be locked in a dark room if I am kept awake again by that hobo serenading at thy window.  To-morrow, when thou goest to church, take care that thou throwest him no glance.  Dios de mi alma!  I am worn out!  Three nights have I been awakened by that tw-a-n-g, tw-a-n-g."

“You need not be afraid,” said her daughter, digging her little heel into the floor.  “I shall not fall in love.  I have no faith in men.”

Her mother laughed outright in spite of her anger.

“Indeed, my Eulogia!  Thou art very wise.  And why, pray, hast thou no faith in men?”

Eulogia tossed the soft black braid from her shoulder, and fixed her keen roguish eyes on the old lady’s face.

“Because I have read all the novels of the Senor Dumas, and I well know all those men he makes.  And they never speak the truth to women; always they are selfish, and think only of their own pleasure.  If the women suffer, they do not care; they do not love the women—­only themselves.  So I am not going to be fooled by the men.  I shall enjoy life, but I shall think of myself, not of the men.”

Her mother gazed at her in speechless amazement.  She never had read a book in her life, and had not thought of locking from her daughter the few volumes her dead husband had collected.  Then she gasped with consternation.

“Por Dios, senorita, a fine woman thou wilt make of thyself with such ideas! a nice wife and mother—­when the time comes.  What does Padro Flores say to that, I should like to know?  It is very strange that he has let you read those books.”

“I have never told him,” said Eulogia, indifferently.

“What!” screamed her mother.  “You never told at confession?”

“No, I never did.  It was none of his business what I read.  Reading is no sin.  I confessed all—­”

“Mother of God!” cried Dona Pomposa, and she rushed at Eulogia with uplifted hand; but her nimble daughter dived under her arm with a provoking laugh, and ran out of the room.

That night Eulogia pushed aside the white curtain of her window and looked out.  The beautiful bare hills encircling San Luis Obispo were black in the silvered night, but the moon made the town light as day.  The owls were hooting on the roof of the mission; Eulogia could see them flap their wings.  A few Indians were still moving among the dark huts outside the walls, and within, the padre walked among his olive trees.  Beyond the walls the town was still awake.  Once a horseman dashed down the street, and Eulogia wondered if murder had been done in the mountains; the bandits were thick in their fastnesses.  She did wish she could see one.