Strange and wonderful to tell! Nela, who had never in her life had a room, nor clothes, nor shoes, nor food, nor sympathy, nor relations, nor any earthly thing of her own, not even a name—was buried in a style which caused no small amount of envy among the living in Socartes. This posthumous splendor was the bitterest irony ever known in these metalliferous regions. SeÑorita Florentina, acting on her generous impulses, consoled herself for the disappointment of not having been able to help Nela alive, by the satisfaction of doing honor to her hapless remains after death. Some hard-hearted materialists criticised her severely; but, for our part, we regarded it as an additional proof of her refined kind-heartedness.

When Nela was carried to the grave, the curious who came to gaze at her, thought her almost pretty—wonderful to say! At least so they said. It was the first time a compliment had ever been paid her. The funeral was magnificent, and the priests of Villamojada opened their mouths wide in astonishment when they found themselves receiving money to pray for the soul of La Canela's daughter. It was bewildering, amazing, to think that a being whose social importance had been about equal to that of a worm or a fly, should prove the occasion of so much burning of tapers, of so much hanging of drapery, and of making so many choristers and sacristans hoarse. Nay, it was so astounding as to be positively amusing; nothing else was talked of for at least six weeks.

The surprise, and indeed—to be frank—the indignation of this worthy little world, culminated one day when two waggons, loaded with enormous blocks of fine white stone, were descried approaching by the high-road. In SeÑana's mind, particularly, a hideous subversion of ideas took place, a cataclysm resulting in mental chaos, when she brought herself to believe that those fine white stones were to build Nela's tomb. If an ox had taken to flying or her husband to making speeches, it could not have roused her from her stupefaction.

The parish registers of Villamojada were searched, for of course it was indispensable that she should have a name now she was dead, though she had done without one during her life; as is proved by this very history, where she has borne various names. And this indispensable requisite having been found, and duly placed on the records of the dead, the magnificent tomb, which stood up proudly among the rustic crosses of the graveyard at Aldeacorba, had this epitaph engraved on it:

R. I. P.

MARÍA MANUELA TELLEZ.

RECALLED TO HEAVEN

October the 12th, 186...

And a wreath of flowers prettily carved in the marble, crowned the inscription. Many months later, when Florentina and Pablo PenÁguilas had been some time married and no one—to tell the truth, for truth is the first consideration—no one in Aldeacorba de Suso remembered Nela any longer, some travellers of the tourist genus, in crossing that part of the country, happened to observe the grand marble sepulchre erected in the cemetery by the piety and affection of an exemplary friend, and were struck with admiration. Without more ado they proceeded to write down in their note-book these remarks, which were subsequently published under the title of "Sketches from CantÁbria," in an English newspaper.

"The most remarkable object to be seen at Aldeacorba is a magnificent monument, erected in the cemetery over the grave of a young lady of rank, famous in that part of the country for her beauty. DoÑa Mariquita Manuela Tellez belonged to one of the noblest and wealthiest families in CantÁbria, that of Tellez Giron y de Trastamara. Witty, romantic, and capricious, she took a fancy to wander about the roads, playing the guitar and singing Calderon's odes, and she would dress herself up in rags to enable her to mix with the herd of beggars, pick-pockets, troubadours, bull-fighters, friars, hidalgos, gypsies, and muleteers, which at the great kermesas, constitute that motley scene of Spanish low life which still exists and always must exist, independent and picturesque, in spite of the railways and newspapers which have begun to force their way into the Spanish Peninsula.

"The abad [6] of Villamojada wept as he told us of the whims, the virtues, and the beauty of this wealthy gentlewoman, who, whenever she appeared at the balls, banquets, or caÑas of Madrid, was distinguished for her aristocratic deportment. The number of romanceros, sonnets and madrigals composed in honor of this noble damsel by all the Spanish poets, is beyond all calculation." [7]

On reading this I saw at once that the worthy reporters had dreamed dreams. I determined to tell the truth, and the truth, as I have told it, has resulted in this book.

We must now bid farewell forever to this tomb. We will fix our eyes on another object, seek out another figure—searching diligently, for he whom we want is but a small personage, a minute insect, as it were, no larger on the face of the earth than the Phylloxera on the vine. But we have found him—there he is, tiny, squalid, a mere atomy. But he lives and breathes, and will grow great in time. Listen to his story, for it is an interesting one I promise you.

Well, Sir....

But no; it does not belong to this book. If you like the history of Marianela, in good time you shall hear that of Celipin.

THE END.