Nothing of importance occurred on the two following days, but then there came one on which the deed was done, the wonderful, crowning, fateful deed. Teodoro Golfin, in whose hands the surgeon's knife was as the chisel of a Genius, had attempted to amend one of Nature's most delicate works. Unflinching and calm he took possession, as it were, in virtue of his science and experience, of the marvellous speck in which the glorious scheme of the Universe is epitomized and concentrated. The task before him was nothing less than to stand face to face with the mystery of Life; to investigate and discover the causes which hindered a living eye from taking cognizance of things visible. For this a firm soul was needed and a tender hand. The delicate tissue of the cornea must be divided, the crystalline lens removed, carefully avoiding the hyaloid membrane and the vitreous humor; the dimensions of the pupil must be increased by an incision, and the condition of the inner chamber of the eye ascertained by induction or by examination.

Few words were spoken after this daring expedition into a microcosm—an enterprise not less bold than the attempt to measure the distance between the stars, or to gauge the infinite realms of space. Those who were present sat in silent suspense, as they might await the resurrection of a dead man or the creation of a new world. Golfin said nothing definite either:

"Iris contractile," he muttered. "Retina sensitive.... Nerves living and sound...." And yet the function, the fact, the act of seeing—where was that?

"Time will show," said Don Teodoro, as he carefully adjusted the bandages. "Patience."

And his leonine face expressed neither disappointment nor triumph, neither hope nor doubt. Science had done all she could; it was almost like an act of creation, like many others she has enabled us to perform in this nineteenth century. Nature, thus boldly defied and resenting such an intrusion on her secrets, held her peace.

The patient was strictly forbidden to see any one but his father, who waited on him; no one else was admitted. Nela went several times to enquire for the invalid; but she never crossed the threshold, she waited outside till Don Manuel should come out, or his daughter, or some member of the household. The young lady, after giving her the fullest information and painting in lively colors the anxiety they all felt, would go out to walk with her. One day Florentina insisted that Nela should show her where she lived, and they went down to Centeno's hovel; the squalid interior horrified and disgusted Florentina; above all, the baskets which served as the orphan's bed.

"Well, Nela will very soon come to live with me," said Florentina, getting out of the stuffy hole as fast as she could, "and then she will have a bedroom just like mine, and will dress and feed as I do."

Dame Centeno and her two girls stood open-mouthed with astonishment at this speech. They began to think that the hapless and neglected orphan must have found her father in some Prince or King, as the orphans do in the tales.

When they had left the house behind them Florentina said to her companion: "Pray to God day and night that He may grant my dear cousin the blessing which we all enjoy and which He has denied to him. What an anxious state we live in! If he gains his sight a thousand delightful things will follow and many difficulties will be removed. I have made a solemn vow to the Virgin; I have promised that if she grants my cousin his sight I will take under my care the very poorest creature I can find, and give her all that can make her entirely forget her poverty, making her my own equal in every respect, as happy and as comfortable as I am. And it is not enough merely to give her clothes, or set her down to a table with plenty of soup and meat. No, there is another charity which is worth more than all the broken food and frippery in the world—kindness, respect, consideration, and a name. I will give her these too, and teach her to respect herself. I have found the person I want, MarÍa—it is you. I have promised the Holy Virgin from the bottom of my soul that if she will bestow the gift of sight on my cousin, you shall be my sister. You shall be the same as myself, in my house, exactly like my sister." As she spoke Nela's Virgin clasped the girl in her arms and kissed her on the forehead.

It is impossible to give any idea of the poor little vagabond's feelings in this crowning hour of her life. An instinctive dread kept her away from the house at Aldeacorba, a dread that was dimly mixed up with the personality of her young benefactress, like the figures we see in a nightmare; while, at the same time, she felt tender admiration and reverence for her. Now and again, in her innocent bewilderment, she fancied it must be the Virgin Mary in her actual presence; in no other way could she conceive of the kind-heartedness which smiled upon her, like the realms of Paradise, from the open soul of Florentina, with its purity, tenderness, gentleness, and gracious consolations. Nela's honest instinct made her feel and understand at once that she could not hate her self-constituted sister. Hate her! How could she? She felt she must love her with all the strength of her soul. Her aversion and repulsion sank to the bottom like a sediment after fermentation, and there decomposed and vanished, their elements recombining to intensify the admiration and respect she felt for her benefactress. Still, though the feeling had disappeared, the cause remained—the sentiment which, as it could no longer flourish singly in her soul, with that masterful exclusiveness which is characteristic of such passions, revenged itself by producing that utter dejection which is the very demon of melancholy.

At Centeno's they remarked that Nela did not eat, that she seemed wearier than usual, that for long intervals she sat as silent and motionless as a statue, and that she sang no longer, day or night. Her incapacity for exertion had become absolute helplessness, and Tanasio, having sent her to buy him some tobacco, she sat down in the road and remained there for the rest of the day.

One morning, just a week after the operation had been performed, she went up to the engineer's house, and SofÍa said to her: "A gift for good news Nela! Have you heard? They have taken off the bandages to-day, and they say he can see, that he will see quite well. Ulysses, the foreman of the works, has just been to tell us. Teodoro has not been here, but my husband has gone to Aldeacorba—we shall know the truth very soon."

Nela, as she heard it, felt more dead than alive, and crossing her hands she exclaimed: "Blessed be the Holy Virgin who has worked this wonder!—She, she alone has done it."

"You are glad little one?—No wonder, for now SeÑorita Florentina will keep her promise," said SofÍa in a bantering tone. "Allow me to congratulate you, SeÑorita DoÑa Nela.—Why it is like a lottery! What a big prize, Nelilla! And yet you may not be grateful—no, you will not. I never yet knew any poor who were grateful. They are all proud, and the more you give them the more they ask.—Well, it is a settled thing that Pablo is to marry his cousin, and it is a very good match; they are a handsome pair and she seems no fool—and she has a sweet pretty face; what a pity to spoil such a face and figure by dressing so villanously! No, no, if I want to dress well I will not apply to the dressmaker at Santa Irene de CampÓ."

As she spoke Don CÁrlos came in; he was radiant with satisfaction and delight.

"A complete success!" he shouted as he reached the door. "Next to God stands my brother Teodoro!"

"It is quite certain?"

"As sure as daylight—I never believed it could be.—And what a triumph, SofÍa! What a triumph! It is my greatest pride and happiness to be my brother's brother. He is the king of men.—Yes, as I say: First God, and then Teodoro!"