but, truth to say, there was always a something, there was always a line, invisible but which could not be crossed between the improvised lady and the lady by birth and ancestry.  Dona Perfecta addressed Maria as “thou,” while the latter could never lay aside certain ceremonial forms.  Maria Remedios always felt herself so insignificant in the presence of her uncle’s friend that her natural humility had acquired through this feeling a strange tinge of sadness.  She saw that the good canon was a species of perpetual Aulic councillor in the house; she saw her idolized Jacintillo mingling on terms of almost lover-like familiarity with the young lady, and nevertheless the poor mother and niece visited the house as little as possible.  It is to be observed that Maria Remedios’ dignity as a lady suffered not a little in Dona Perfecta’s house, and this was disagreeable to her; for in this sighing spirit, too, there was, as there is in every living thing, a little pride.  To see her son married to Rosarito, to see him rich and powerful; to see him related to Dona Perfecta, to the senora—­ah! this was for Maria Remedios earth and heaven, this life and the next, the present and the future, the supreme totality of existence.  For years her mind and her heart had been filled by the light of this sweet hope.  Because of this hope she was good and she was bad; because of it she was religious and humble, or fierce and daring; because of it she was whatever she was—­for without this idea Maria, who was the incarnation of her project, would not exist.

In person, Maria Remedios could not be more insignificant than she was.  She was remarkable for a surprising freshness and robustness which made her look much younger than she really was, and she always dressed in mourning, although her widowhood was now of long standing.

Five days had passed since the entrance of Caballuco into the Penitentiary’s house.  It was evening.  Remedios entered her uncle’s room with the lighted lamp, which she placed on the table.  She then seated herself in front of the old man, who, for a great part of the afternoon, had been sitting motionless and thoughtful in his easy chair.  His fingers supported his chin, wrinkling up the brown skin, unshaven for the past three days.

“Did Caballuco say he would come here to supper to-night?” he asked his niece.

“Yes, senor, he will come.  It is in a respectable house like this that the poor fellow is most secure.”

“Well, I am not altogether easy in my mind, in spite of the respectability of the house,” answered the Penitentiary.  “How the brave Ramos exposes himself!  And I am told that in Villahorrenda and the surrounding country there are a great many men.  I don’t know how many men——­What have you heard?”

“That the soldiers are committing atrocities.”

“It is a miracle that those Hottentots have not searched the house!  I declare that if I see one of the red-trousered gentry enter the house, I shall fall down speechless.”