as you are; it is enough that this union has been proposed by your father, to whom both my daughter and myself owe so much, for me to accept it.  And Rosarito will not oppose it since I wish it.  What is wanting, then?  Nothing; there is nothing wanting but a little time.  The marriage cannot be concluded with the haste you desire and which might, perhaps, give ground for interpretations discreditable to my dear daughter’s reputation.  But as you think of nothing but machines, you want every thing done by steam.  Wait, man, wait; what hurry are you in?  This hatred that you have taken to our poor Orbajosa is nothing but a caprice.  But of course you can only live among counts and marquises and orators and diplomats—­all you want is to get married and separate me forever from my daughter,” she added, wiping away a tear.  “Since that is the case, inconsiderate boy, at least have the charity to delay for a little this marriage, for which you are so eager.  What impatience!  What ardent love!  I did not suppose that a poor country girl like my daughter could inspire so violent a passion.”

The arguments of his aunt did not convince Pepe Rey, but he did not wish to contradict her.  A fresh cause of anxiety was soon added to those which already embittered his existence.  He had now been in Orbajosa for two weeks, and during that time he had received no letter from his father.  This could not be attributed to carelessness on the part of the officials of the post-office of Orbajosa, for the functionary who had charge of that service being the friend and protege of Dona Perfecta, the latter every day recommended him to take the greatest care that the letters addressed to her nephew did not go astray.  The letter-carrier, named Cristoval Ramos, and nicknamed Caballuco—­a personage whose acquaintance we have already made—­also visited the house, and to him Dona Perfecta was accustomed to address warnings and reprimands as energetic as the following: 

“A pretty mail service you have!  How is it that my nephew has not received a single letter since he has been in Orbajosa?  When the carrying of the mail is entrusted to such a giddy-pate, how can things be expected to go well?  I will speak to the governor of the province so that he may be careful what kind of people he puts in the post-office.”

Caballuco, shrugging his shoulders, looked at Rey with the most complete indifference.

One day he entered the house with a letter in his hand.

“Thank Heaven!” said Dona Perfecta to her nephew.  “Here are letters from your father.  Rejoice, man!  A pretty fright we have had through my brother’s laziness about writing.  What does he say?  He is well, no doubt,” she added, seeing that Pepe Rey opened the letter with feverish impatience.

The engineer turned pale as he glanced over the first lines.

“Good Heavens!  Pepe, what is the matter?” exclaimed Dona Perfecta, rising in alarm.  “Is your father ill?”