By this time they were rested, and they went on till they reached the beginning of the grove beyond Saldeoro. Here they turned off into a clump of ancient walnut trees, of which the trunks and roots made a sort of step-ladder in the soil, with mossy hollows and backs so perfect for seats, that the hand of man could have made no better. From the top of the slope trickled a thread of water, tumbling from stone to stone, till it fell exhausted into a little basin constructed to be a reservoir to feed the conduit by which the neighboring houses were supplied. Before them the land sloped gently away, affording a lovely panorama of green hills with scattered groves and villas, and meadow plains where hundreds of cattle grazed and wandered peacefully. Quite in the background, between two lofty heights which were the farthest limit of the land, lay a wide segment of purely blue sea. It was such a landscape as makes a man feel to the utmost his relations to infinity and eternity.

Pablo had seated himself on the trunk of a tree, resting his left arm on the edge of the basin; with his right hand he pulled at the boughs which hung low enough to touch his forehead, on which now and again the sunbeams played, as the boughs stirred.

"What are you doing, Nela?" asked he, after a pause, not hearing the steps, the voice, nor even the breathing of his companion. "What are you about, and where are you?"

"Here I am," said Nela, laying her hand on his shoulder. "I was looking at the sea."

"Ah! it must be a long way off."

"It is visible between the hills of FicÓbriga."

"Very large—immensely large—so wide that you might look all day, and not have done looking—is it not?"

"There is only a piece to be seen from here—like the bit you cut off with your teeth when you put a slice of bread in your mouth."

"Yes, yes—I understand. Every one says there is nothing in the world so beautiful as the sea, because it is so grandly simple.—Listen, Nela, to what I am going to say—but what are you doing?" Nela had grasped a bough of the tree with both hands, and was swinging by it lightly and gracefully.

"Here I am, SeÑorito mio. I was wondering why God should not give us human creatures wings to fly like birds. How delightful it would be just to give a flap and a whisk, and up we should go, and in one flight we should be at the top of that peak between FicÓbriga and the sea."

"But though God has not given us wings he has given us thought instead, which flies faster than any bird, since it can fly up to God himself.—Tell me, child, of what good would wings be to me, if God had denied me the gift of thought?"

"But I should like to have both. And if I had wings I would pick you up in my little beak to take you out of this world, and carry you up ever so much higher than the clouds." The blind lad put out his hand to stroke Nela's hair.

"Sit down by me; are you not tired?"

"Just a little," she said, sitting down and laying her head with childlike confidence on her master's shoulder.

"You are breathing fast, Nelilla, you are very tired; it is with trying to fly.—Well, what I want to say to you is this: Talking of the sea put me in mind of a thing my father read to me last night. You know that ever since I was old enough, my father has been in the habit of reading to me every evening different books of science, or history, or art, or mere amusement. I might say that these readings make up all I know of life. The Lord, to compensate me for being blind, has given me a very good memory, and it has turned these readings to good account; for though there has been no regular method in them, I have contrived to put some order into the ideas that have penetrated to my understanding. How I have enjoyed listening and learning about the admirable laws and order of the universe, the harmonious circling of the stars, the motion of atoms, and above all, those grand principles which govern our souls and minds. I have enjoyed history too, which is a true account of all the things men have done in former times; for though, my child, they have always done the same wicked and foolish things, they have nevertheless gone on improving, some of them doing their utmost—but without ever succeeding—to attain that perfection which belongs to God alone. And finally, my father has read me some deeper and more mysterious things that cannot be understood at once, but when they are thought over and considered they occupy and charm the mind. He does not enjoy that sort of reading very much, as he does not altogether follow it, and it has tired me sometimes, while at other times it has delighted me. And there is no doubt that when you have an author who explains himself clearly, such subjects are very interesting. They deal with cause and effect, the rationale of all we think, and how we think, and teach us about the essential nature of things."

Nela did not seem to understand a single word of what her friend was saying, but she listened attentively with her mouth wide open; to inhale, if possible, the essences and causes of which her master was discoursing, opening her beak like a bird watching the movements of a fly he wants to catch.

"Well, then," he went on, "last night he was reading me some pages about Beauty. The author, in discussing Beauty, said that it was the outcome and radiance of goodness and truth, with many other ingenious comparisons so well thought out and expressed, that it was a pleasure to listen."

"And was that book," said Nela, anxious to prove herself equal to the occasion, "like one father Centeno has.... The thousand and I don't know how many nights?"

"No, no, goose-cap; it is a book on Beauty in the abstract, you will not understand—on ideal Beauty—and yet you must understand that there is a sort of Beauty which cannot be seen, nor touched, nor perceived by any of our senses."

"For example, like the Virgin Mary," interrupted Nela, "whom we cannot see nor touch, because her pictures are not herself, but only her likeness."

"You are quite right; it is just like that. Thinking over this, my father shut the book, and talked of one thing and another. We spoke then of beauty of form, and my father said: 'This unfortunately you can never understand.' But I said I could. I said that there could only be one type, and that would apply to all."

Nela, caring little enough for such subtleties, had taken the flowers out of her companion's hands, and was arranging their colors to her taste.

"I have a clear idea about this," the blind lad went on, vehemently, "an idea that I have been quite in love with for some months. Yes, I am sure, quite sure of it; I want no eyes to see that, and I said to my father, I have an ideal of enchanting beauty, a type which includes every possible perfection, and that type is Nela. My father began to laugh, and said 'yes.'"

Nela turned as scarlet as a poppy, and could not answer a word. During a short spasm of terror and pain, she felt as if the blind boy were looking at her.

"Yes, you are the most perfect beauty imaginable," Pablo went on, eagerly. "How could it be possible that your goodness, and innocence, and freshness and grace—your imagination, your sweet and lovely soul, which have all combined to enliven and comfort my dark and melancholy life—how, I say, could it be possible that they should not be embodied in a person as lovely? Nela, Nela," and his voice trembled with anxiety.—"Tell me—are you not beautiful—very pretty?"

Nela was silent; she instinctively put her hands up, and stuck into her hair some of the half-faded flowers she had gathered in the meadows.

"You will not say? You are modest. Indeed, if you were not, you would not be the sweet little soul that you are; the logic of Beauty would be at fault, and that cannot be. You do not answer?"

"I ..." murmured Nela timidly, not ceasing her occupation, "I do not know—they say that I was very pretty as a baby—but now...."

"You are still?"

MarÍa, in her utter confusion, could only say:

"Now—well, you know that people talk nonsense—and make stupid mistakes—sometimes those who have eyes see least."

"Yes indeed, well said! Come here and kiss me."

Nela did not instantly obey, for having succeeded in fixing a sort of garland of flowers in her hair, she now felt an eager wish to see the effect of the adornment in the clear mirror of the reservoir. For the first time in her life she felt an impulse of vanity, and leaning on her hands, she bent over the basin.

"What are you doing?" asked the blind lad.

"I am looking at myself in the water, which is just like a looking-glass," she replied, confessing her vanity with perfect simplicity.

"You need not do that. You are as lovely as the angels round the throne of God." He had fired himself with enthusiastic imaginings.

"The water is ruffled now," said the girl, "and I cannot see myself plainly. It is trembling as much as I am. There, now it is quieter, now it is still again.—I can see myself now, very well."

"And see how pretty you are! Come here, my child?" added the blind youth, holding out his arms.

"I ... pretty!" she said, in anxious confusion. "Well, what I see in the pool is not so ugly as they say. The fact is, there are a great many people who do not know how to see."

"Aye, a great many."

"If only I were dressed as other girls are!" exclaimed Nela, with a touch of pride.

"You shall be."

"And the book said I was beautiful?" asked Nela, appealing to every source of conviction.

"I say so, and I always speak the truth!" cried the boy, carried away by his eager imagination.

"Maybe it is so," said Nela, moving away from her not too flattering contemplation. "Maybe that men are very stupid, and do not see things as they really are."

"Human nature is liable to a thousand errors."

"I do believe it," said Mariquilla, greatly comforted by her friend's words. "What can they see to laugh at in me?"

"Oh! how miserable is the lot of man!" cried the blind boy, driven to wild absurdity by his raving fancy. "The gift of sight may lead him into many errors—may betray him into a misapprehension of abstract truth—and abstract truth proves that you are beautiful, without any stain or blemish of ugliness. If any one tells me the contrary, I will give him the lie. Away with their theories of form. Oh, fool! into what sins your eyes may mislead you! Nela, come here, I want to have you by my side and kiss your beloved head."

She threw herself into his arms.

"Sweet, lovely darling!" he exclaimed, clasping her passionately to his breast. "With all my soul I love you!"

Nela did not speak. Her heart was full of innocent and tender devotion, overflowing with pure delight. The youth, trembling and throbbing, held her more closely than ever, saying:

"I love you more than my life. Angel of God, love me too or I shall die!"

MarÍa freed herself from his embrace, and he remained lost in bewilderment. She, the tiny woman, felt an overwhelming and irresistible impulse to look at her face once more in the water. She gently stole up to the edge, and there against the green background she saw the insignificant little face, with its black eyes, its dull coloring, its sharp nose—not altogether ugly that nose—the short, unkempt hair, and the birdlike, eager expression. She leaned farther over the stone brim to see her body; it was pitiably made and mean. The flowers in her hair fell into the water, making circles in it, and the image wavered. She, poor child, felt as if her heart were being torn up by the roots, and she staggered backwards, murmuring:

"Mother of God! how hideous I am!"

"What are you saying, Nela? I thought you spoke."

"I did not say anything—son of my soul.—I was only thinking.—Yes, it is high time we should turn homewards. It will soon be dinner-time."

"Well, come along, you shall dine with me, and bye-and-by we will go out again. Give me your hand; I will not have you leave me."

When they reached home, Don Francisco was in the forecourt with two other gentlemen; Marianela recognized the engineer of the mines and the stranger who had lost his way in La Terrible the night before.

"Here are the SeÑor ingeniero," said she, "and his brother—the gentleman of last evening."

All three men gazed with evident interest at the blind youth as he approached.

"We have been expecting you some time, my son," said the father, taking his hand and introducing him to the doctor.

"Let us go indoors," said the engineer.

"Blessings on all men of science with good hearts!" exclaimed Don Francisco, turning to the doctor. "Walk in, gentlemen; happy is the hour when you enter my house."

"Now, let us study the case," murmured Golfin.

When Pablo and the two visitors had gone in, Don Francisco turned to Mariquilla, who was standing transfixed and doubtful in the middle of the court-yard, and said kindly:

"You see, Nela, you may as well go home. My son will not be able to go out this afternoon." And then, seeing that still she did not move, he added:

"You may run round to the kitchen. Dorotea will give you something nice."