"He was always kind to her when he saw her," continued Manuel. "Once he gave her his devisa. When she died she held it in her hand and would not let it go. It was buried with her. She was a pretty child—Sarita—but she had always lived in the country and knew nothing."

"I have always lived in the country and I know nothing," said Pepita, mocking him with her great eyes; "but I can help anything I choose. It should be the others who cannot help it."

She thought him dull and tiresome, and soon wished he would go away, but he could not help it, and lingered about with all sorts of stupid excuses. The more she bewildered him, the more he was fascinated. It was almost enough to stand and stare at her and hear her voice as she talked to the others. How pretty she was—that girl—how she held her head as if she was some high-born lady instead of a peasant! When some passer-by, more bold than the rest, made (loud enough to be heard) some comment upon her beauty, it did not disturb her in the least—it was as if it were nothing to her. Was it possible that there could live a girl who did not care that she was so pretty? But to imagine that she did not care was to make a great mistake—she cared very much. Ever since she had been a tiny child, her little mirror and the water of the fountain had reflected back to her this pretty face, with its soft rose of cheek and mouth, its dark liquid eyes, and soft babyish rings of hair curling on the forehead. She had always heard too that she was pretty, and as she had grown older she had found out something else, namely, that she had a power more strong and subtle than that of her beauty—a power people did not even try to resist. She did not call it