Whether it were owing to this circumstance or not, it is not to be denied that, after signing the truce with Rogelio, Esclavita’s manner and appearance underwent a complete change. Her eyes brightened, her cheeks grew rosy, her voice lost its melancholy accent, she was less silent; and while her occupations continued the same, her manner of performing them was so different, that if she had looked before like a resigned victim to duty and had seemed to cast a shadow of gloom over the house as she went about her work, her brisk and active movements now filled it with cheerfulness.

DoÑa Aurora did not cease to congratulate herself on this change. “Praised be God,” she would say. “That is the way I like to see people around me look. I can’t endure those people who go about with long-drawn, gloomy faces, without knowing why or wherefore. You see, child. It was all on your account, neither more nor less. Now that you treat her with a little friendliness see how she is a different person.”

And different indeed she was. Even her physique had undergone a favorable change. Whether in sign of happiness or for some other reason unknown to us, she had removed the black kerchief from her head, allowing her hair to fall negligently down her neck, whose extraordinary whiteness was set off by the black silk of her neck-kerchief. Her complexion now was the complexion of the young maidens of Galicia, that bright complexion that seems to preserve the dewy freshness of their native land, and whose rosy tint puts to shame the sickly pallor of the daughters of Madrid. Her expressive eyes, green, with yellowish lights, emphasized the vernal and delicate character of Esclavita’s beauty, reminding one of a valley watered by two crystalline rivulets. But the girl’s chief beauty was her hair, auburn changing to gold where it caught the light, that, parted in the middle, flowed in luxuriant natural waves on either side of the head, crowning the low forehead and the delicate temples. She wore it hanging down her back in two thick braids, or gathered up in a heavy coil at the back of the head, and if in the morning it looked smooth and even lustrous while damp with the water which was the only cosmetic Esclavita used, as the day wore on, and she went about her work, it curled up, and, rough and silky at the same time, framed her face in an aureole like that of a saint in some old painting. And indeed Esclavita, with her simple rustic manner of wearing her hair, reminded one of some old Flemish painting on wood, or one of the creations of early Italian art, the resemblance being heightened by her modest air, her downcast look, that odor of incense and the sacristy, which Rita Pardo had observed in her. Looking at her full face when she smiled, the type of the rustic could be descried through the angular outlines of the virgin.

All these perfections and graces, with many more that I refrain from mentioning, were perceived through his spectacles, appreciated, talked about, and lauded to the skies by the discreet octogenarian whom Rogelio called NuÑo Rasura, and whom we with more respect call Don Gaspar. Nor did he wait to pronounce his panegyric until the transformation we have spoken of took place, but from the very first day on which she had opened the door for him the gallant old man began to extol her merits, wearying the rest of the company with his exaggerated praises, his rhapsodies, his silly effusions, and, in the words of the Crown Solicitor, his archfooleries.

“Just see,” SeÑor de Febrero would say, throwing back his handsome Orleanic head and gently smoothing the curls of his wig or stroking the velvet cushion of his crutch, “what judgment our excellent friend DoÑa Aurora has shown in choosing this girl, who is unique in her class. In the first place, she is so handy, so careful, so industrious, and then she has such a modest and truthful air, a great merit in my eyes, now that good manners are out of date and that viragos and strapping jades swarm around us. In former times—do you remember, friend CandÁs—women were all like this girl, there was none of that effrontery that we see nowadays.”

“Yes, yes, very demure, on the outside,” the incorrigible Don Nicanor would respond, putting his ear-trumpet into requisition—“little saints, all sweetness and softness. But within they made up for it. You may say so indeed! But I have cut my wisdom teeth and I am not to be imposed upon by those Madonna faces.”

“See how far our friend CandÁs carries his evil-mindedness! That may be the case in Asturia, in your part of the country, but it is not so in ours; am I not right, DoÑa Aurora? And there is no denying that as boldness and want of decorum in a woman repel, so neatness and modesty are an additional attraction.”

Here SeÑora de PardiÑas was obliged to use all her efforts to keep from bursting out laughing, for Rogelio, who had followed the conversation from his corner on the sofa, made a comical grimace and winked at her roguishly to give point to the old man’s remarks.

But before many days were over the benevolent admiration of SeÑor de Febrero was converted into a keen interest, an irrepressible curiosity to know all that related to “our little country-woman.”

“Tell me how you came to get her?” he asked SeÑora de PardiÑas, speaking rather with his half-closed and expressive eyes that sparkled behind his glasses than with his voice.

“She was recommended to me by the daughters of Romera, whom you must know.”

“Ah-h-h-h yes, yes! Romera, Romera. Of course.” And he settled his glasses on his well-shaped nose. “But our little friends, the Romeras,” he continued, with the persistence of a judge who is conducting a cross-examination and the obstinacy of an old man who is bent on gaining the information he desires, “they did not bring her from Galicia, did they? I did not know they had ever been there. Is not the girl a Galician?”

“A Galician, yes,” said DoÑa Aurora, without volunteering any further information.

“She belongs to a decent family, eh?” continued the undaunted NuÑo Rasura. “So I should judge, at least—and I have a keen scent,” he added, laying his finger on his classical nose. “As for her language, she speaks well, with the exception of an occasional solecism. Her appearance is refined and lady-like. So she belongs to a decent family, eh?”

“Decent, yes,” SeÑora PardiÑas was obliged to answer, making a mental reservation.

“But what are they? Artisans? Householders? Employees?”

“No, she is the niece” (DoÑa Aurora’s voice grew slightly husky) “of a village priest.”

“So, so, so!” exclaimed the dean emphatically. “Did I not say so? The niece of a clergyman! Boccato di cardinale! Those girls are always very pious, admirably brought up, and above temptation. So, so!”

SeÑora de PardiÑas tried to turn the conversation, but if there is anything in the world more persistent than a child’s caprice, it is an old man’s whim. Don Gaspar played with his crutch, turning it round and round, and then, unable to restrain himself longer, said:

“Do you know, friend Aurora, if I may say so, that I have not yet taken a good look at the face of that girl? And I am curious to know if she really resembles a certain SeÑorita de Vivero—a lovely girl she was, by the way—that we boys used to call the little Magdelen—somewhere about the year ’24 or ’25. Could you not call her with the excuse of bringing a glass of water, or the like?”

The meaning look that passed between mother and son was observed by Lain Calvo, who exclaimed with simulated terror, and forgetting for the moment his pretended deafness:

“Caray, my dear DoÑa Aurora, don’t call that nymph, I beg of you; if you do, you will be responsible for the ruin of our friend SeÑor de Febrero. At Don Gaspar’s age, the passions make sad havoc. Prudence, Don Gasparin, remember that there is a heaven above us.”

When Esclavita, whom DoÑa Aurora called under some pretext, entered the room, no one could help smiling. This embarrassed the girl, who, not knowing the cause of their merriment, blushed furiously, and as a consequence, looked lovelier than ever, with that charm peculiar to her, that chaste and modest air, through which could be divined a firmness of character bordering on obstinacy. SeÑor de Febrero devoured her with his eyes. The old man’s head was turned. When Esclavita had left the room Lain Calvo whispered to SeÑora de PardiÑas:

“Well, the girl may be a treasure, but as for me”—and he touched his throat significantly—“I can’t swallow her. I steer clear of those girls that grow confused the moment one looks at them. Keep an eye upon her, DoÑa Aurora. Take care!”

“I don’t know why you should say that, SeÑor CandÁs,” said SeÑora de PardiÑas with displeasure, wounded in the affection she felt for the girl.

“Girls like that, that look as quiet as mice, are very limbs of Satan,” declared the malicious Asturian. “They pretend to be modest, and all they want is to be coaxed; they pretend to be innocent, and they are more full of wiles than the devil himself. They are the kind of women who say, ‘Don’t ask me for a kiss, that would be shocking! But if you steal one, why, it can’t be helped.’”

“SeÑor CandÁs, there are certain insinuations that can only be qualified as venomous,” NuÑo Rasura exclaimed angrily, striking the floor with his crutch. “When the honor of the fair sex is in question, one cannot be too careful; one should consider well what one says and not speak lightly of any one.”

“So, so!” replied the Crown Solicitor, taking refuge in his deafness. “I see this class of women give you, too, something to think about. It is not for nothing that we have lived all these years, and have lost our teeth and our hair. But tell me, DoÑa Aurora, how this wandering princess happened to come here. Was she forsaken by some Galician Æneas? There seems to be some mystery in the affair.”

“Not at all, SeÑor,” exclaimed SeÑora de PardiÑas sharply. “Don’t fancy that by thinking evil in this case you will think right. On account of the death of—of her uncle, she was obliged to go out to service.”

“And how long has she been at service?”

“Well, for a year and a half, more or less.”

“And she has been in two situations already. Bad! bad!”

“What do you mean by bad? Nothing of the kind! You are altogether mistaken, Don Nicanor. The poor girl was affected with a sort of homesickness, the homesickness that we Galicians feel when we leave our country for the first time, and she wanted at least to be with some family from there. As you Asturians are a more mixed race, you can’t understand that. Ask the Romeras if they have any complaint to make of the girl; for it was from there she came to this house—which is very much at your service.”

“Ah! ah! homesickness, eh? Romantic notions and affectations, carapuche! Now, indeed, I can safely predict that you will be obliged to take that princess lime-leaf tea for her nerves, every morning. She has more airs than Lucifer! When she has good food and is well treated, I don’t see what the deuce it matters to her what may be the nationality of the people she is with.”

“You are mistaken,” said SeÑor de Febrero angrily. “This malady called homesickness is a serious affection with our country people, SeÑor de CandÁs, and I have even known persons to die of it. Don’t laugh; every one there, even to the cats, knows that, and if you don’t know it, learn it now. Sometimes it is cured by evoking in the mind of the patient a recollection of home. Have you never heard of the conscript who was dying of homesickness in the hospital at Havana? Well, how do you think he was cured, and that like magic? By hearing the muÑeira played on the bagpipes of his native place. Exactly as I say, by hearing the muÑeira.”

“Don’t be a fool, man, for Heaven’s sake. That conscript must have been as drunk as a fiddler. Pure drunkenness. I would soon cure him with a good flogging.”

“There is no use in talking to you, Don Nicanor. You refuse to believe what we all know to be true. It would be better to pretend to be deaf, as you do. If our little countrywoman does not suit you, DoÑa Aurora, for such a servant I——”

“Well, I protest! If this man doesn’t want to carry off the fair Helen that you have discovered! It is a crime against public morality. Say no, DoÑa Aurora; this is something serious!”

“Of course I shall say no, for my own sake. I am too well pleased with Esclavita to wish to part with her.”

Rogelio had been listening in silence to the dispute between NuÑa Rasura and Lain Calvo. He was inclined to share the indulgent views of his mother and the ex-president of the court. With all this, however, he was at times tempted to believe that the spiteful Asturian knew more about life and was a better judge of human nature than they. By an illusion common to the inexperienced, cynicism and pessimism seemed to him the highest expression of human knowledge. His own inclination to think well of everybody must be the result, he thought, of his youth and inexperience. “Any one can throw dust in my eyes,” he said to himself. “I am a child, but I am determined not to remain one forever.”