RAIMUNDO ALCÁZAR—for this was the name of the pertinacious youth who had so provoked Clementina by following her when we first had the honour of making her acquaintance—met the wrathful glance she had fired at him as she went into her sister-in-law's house with perfect and resigned submission. He waited for a moment to see whether she had gone thither merely on a message, and finding she did not come out again, he placidly walked away in the direction of the little Plaza de Santa Cruz. He stopped in front of a flower-stall. The florist smiled as he drew near, recognising him as an old customer, and took up a bouquet of white roses and violets, which no doubt were awaiting him. He then went to the Plaza Mayor, and took the tramcar for Carabanchel. At the turning which leads to the Cemetery of San Isidro he got out and proceeded on foot. On reaching the graveyard he hastily ascended the slope and went into the new enclosure, where, as the law directs, the dead are laid in graves, and not in long vaulted galleries. He went on with a swift step to a tomb covered with a white marble slab, and enclosed by a little railing. There he stopped. For some minutes he stood still, gazing at it. On the stone, in black letters, was the name, Isabel Martinez de AlcÁzar. Below the name, two dates—1842-1883—those, no doubt, of the birth and death of the dead who slept below. A few faded flowers lay there, which Raimundo carefully removed, and untying the bunch he had brought with him, he scattered the fresh blossoms on the grave, and used the string to tie up the dead ones. With these in one hand and his hat in the other he again stood for some minutes contemplating the spot, with tears in his eyes. Then he walked quickly away without a single curious glance at the other sepultures.

Raimundo AlcÁzar had lost his mother eight or nine months ago. He had never known his father, or, rather, he had no recollection of him, since he was but four years old at the time of his parent's death. His name, too, had been Raimundo, and at the time of his death he had filled a professor's chair at the University of Segovia. When he had first married he had been a youth waiting for an appointment. Isabel's father, a dealer in forged iron in the Calle de Esparteros, had in consequence refused his consent, and only sanctioned their union when at last AlcÁzar won the professorship above mentioned. He was a young fellow of exceptional talents, and published some works on geology, the branch of science to which he had devoted himself. His death, at the age of thirty-two, was much lamented in the small circle to whom men of science are known in Spain. Isabel, with her little son, returned to her father's house in Madrid, and there, three months after her husband's death, she gave birth to a daughter, who was baptised by the name of Aurelia.

Isabel was a remarkably handsome woman, and, as the only child of a man who was supposed to be in easy circumstances, she did not lack for suitors. But she refused every offer. Her friends called her romantic, perhaps because she had more mind and heart than they could generally boast of. She appreciated talent, and detested the prosaic beings who almost exclusively constituted her father's social circle. She worshipped the memory of her husband, whom she had adored while he lived, as a man of superior talents; she treasured with the greatest care every eulogy that had appeared in print on his works; the sole desire and aim of her life was that her son should tread in his father's footsteps, and become respected for his talents and eminence. Heaven blessed her aspirations. At first she saw him growing up before her eyes the living image of his father. Not in face only, but in gesture and voice, he was exactly like him. Then the boy's progress at school caused her the keenest joy. He was intelligent and studious. His masters were always entirely satisfied with him. Every word of praise which came to her ears, every mark of approbation written against his name, gave the poor mother the most exquisite delight. Now she had no doubt that he would inherit his father's gifts.

She was stricken with remorse sometimes when she reflected how far from equitably she divided her affection between her two children. Whatever efforts she might make to preserve the equilibrium, she could not but confess that she loved Raimundo much the best. Her devoted affection was shown in constant petting and small cares, which pampered the boy and weakened his character. She brought him up with excessive fondness. He, on his part, loved her with such exclusive ardour that at times it was almost a fever. Every time he had to leave the shelter of her petticoats to go to school it cost him some tears. He insisted on her watching him from the balcony, and before turning the corner of the street he looked round twenty times to kiss his hand to her. Even when he was grown up and a science-student, Isabel still kept up the habit of going out on the balcony to wave him an adieu when he went to his lectures. Either by nature, or perhaps in consequence of this rather effeminate education, Raimundo was a timid boy, indifferent to the sports of his companions; and he grew up a melancholy youth, and a serious and uncommunicative man. He had scarcely any friends. At college he joined his fellow-students in a walk before going in to lecture but as soon as it was over he went home, and did not care to go out unless with his mother and sister.

Long before that, when he was no more than ten years old his grandfather died. Thus, by the time he was sixteen, he had to play the part of the man in the house. He took his mother to the theatre, accompanied her in paying visits, and sometimes in the evening, when the weather was fine, he took her out for a walk, giving her his arm like her husband or sweetheart. Isabel's beauty did not desert her with years. Those who saw them together never supposed they could be mother and son, but rather sister and brother, if not a married pair. This was the cause of some distress to the lad. As in Madrid men are not remarkable for respect for the fair sex, he used to overhear, in spite of himself, complimentary speeches, or even bold addresses from the passers-by to his mother. And as he heard them, he felt a strange mixture of shame and pleasure, of jealousy and pride; the position of a son in such a case is extremely peculiar and embarrassing.

Old Martinez, his grandfather, after retiring from business, had lost all his savings. They had been invested partly in a gunpowder-making company which had failed, and partly in Government stock. All he had to leave was an income of from seven to eight thousand pesetas.

On this the three lived very thriftily, though they did not lack the necessaries of life. On a second floor in the Calle de Gravina, Raimundo pursued his scientific studies. He hoped to become a professor, like his father, and, seeing how brilliantly he passed every examination, no one doubted that he soon would attain that position; but, instead of turning his attention to geology, he preferred the study of zoology, and more especially that of butterflies. He began making a collection, and displayed so much eagerness and intelligence that, before long, he was possessed of a very fine one. Before he had left college he was already remarkable as an entomologist. The walls of his room were lined with cabinets, containing the rarest and most precious specimens. For two years he saved up his pocket-money to buy a microscope, and at last was able to purchase a fairly good one, which was as useful as it was delightful. The day he took his doctor's degree, when he was just one-and-twenty, Isabel experienced one of those joys that mothers alone can know. She embraced him, shedding a flood of tears.

"Now, mamma," said he, "I am qualified to compete for a professorship. I shall devote myself to preparing for it, and as soon as I succeed I shall renounce anything you may be able to leave me in favour of Aurelia. I have few wants, and can live on my salary."

These generous words went to the mother's heart; she found fresh reason every day for adoring this model son.

Raimundo now plunged into his studies with ardour, working up the special branches required without neglecting his entomology. Thanks to this, and to the honoured name of his father, he was soon eminent among men of science. He wrote some papers, corresponded with various foreign savants, and had the satisfaction of receiving from them the most encouraging praises. He was, it may be said, a happy man. He had no desires for the impossible to devour his soul, no tormenting love-affairs, or intrusive friends; he enjoyed the peace of home-life, the love of his family, and the pure delights of science; his days glided on in tranquillity and happiness. His mother's friends were amazed at such virtuous simplicity. Had Raimundo no love entanglement? Did he not care for women? And Isabel would reply with a smile of evident satisfaction:

"I do not know. I believe he has never yet thought of such a thing. He is so tied to my apron-string that he is like a child of three. He would find it hard, to be sure, to meet with a woman who would love him as I do."

And it was as she said. She kept him wrapped in such an atmosphere of protection, of warm and loving care, as he could never have found with a wife, however devoted she might be. Only mothers have this gift of absolute and unwearying self-sacrifice, never hoping for or dreaming of a return. Raimundo's every need of a practical kind was satisfied with a refined completeness which few men enjoy. He had never known what it was to have to think how he was fed, clothed, and shod, or to take any care for necessaries such as many women do not understand. Every detail of his life was foreseen and arranged for him. He might devote himself wholly to the exercise of his intellect. If he complained of a taste in his mouth, his mother was at his bedside early in the morning with an effervescing saline draught; if his head ached there was a soothing drink at bed-time. If he coughed in the night, ever so little, Isabel could not rest till she had stolen into his room in her nightshift to see that he had not thrown off his bedclothes. As soon as Aurelia was old enough she too helped her mother in the task of averting every pain and removing even the tiniest thorns from the young entomologist's path.

Unhappily—though we might also say very naturally, since happiness cannot last in this world—this blissful course of life came to a sudden end. Isabel fell ill of bronchitis which she could not completely shake off, either because she neglected it or because the physician had hesitated to apply sufficiently severe treatment. It left her with a catarrh of the lungs which weakened her greatly. Then, by the doctor's advice, she went to the baths of Panticosa with Raimundo, leaving Aurelia in the care of some relations. She rallied a little, but fell ill again within a few days of returning to Madrid. She was then visibly failing; so much so that her friends could plainly see that she was dying. Never for a moment did such a notion enter her son's head. His life was so bound up with hers that the two seemed as one. Things went on as they almost always do with the sick who do not know that they are dying. Isabel, though very weak, carried on the housekeeping with her usual care. Raimundo, indeed, had entreated her, and then, taking advantage of his influence over her, had commanded her to rest; but she, evading his vigilance, and prompted by the invincible impulse which busy natures feel to be doing something, would not give up her duties. One day, when she was already almost dying, Raimundo found her on her knees dusting the legs of a table. He was quite horrified, and, chiding her affectionately, helped her up with many kisses.

A pious friend, who came to see her, thought proper to hint to her that she ought to confess. Isabel was painfully impressed; her son, coming in, found her weeping, and flew into a rage, breaking out vehemently against all such bigots. However, the sick woman, who was beginning to understand her danger, insisted gently but firmly on the priest being sent for. Raimundo, much annoyed, sent for the doctor to uphold him in his refusal. The physician at first replied evasively, then he said that it was at any rate being on the right side, that if strong people were liable to sudden death much more were the sickly.

But even now light did not dawn on the young man's apprehension. After seeing the priest, Isabel went on as before, and this contributed to keep up his delusion. She rose in the morning, ate at table with them, went into the sitting-room on her son's arm, and spent the chief part of the day in an armchair. At the same time she was so excessively thin that those who saw her only at long intervals were quite shocked. And yet she did not lose her beauty; on the contrary, it seemed to have increased, her complexion was clearer and more delicate, and her eyes brighter.

One morning she said she would rather not get up. Raimundo sat down by her bed reading a novel. She presently said:

"I am uncomfortable. Lift me up a little; I have no strength."

He rose to do it, and at that very instant his mother's head drooped on one side and she was dead, without a sigh, without the smallest gesture or sign of suffering—like a bird, to use a vulgar but expressive phrase.

The young man's despairing cry brought in the people of the house.

Some relations took him and his sister away to their own home; in the state of stupor in which he was, there was no difficulty in getting him to go whithersoever they would. That same evening some of his college friends came to see him and found him in fairly good spirits, which amazed them, knowing the passionate devotion to his mother he had always professed. He discussed scientific matters for a long time, expressing himself with greater volubility than usual. This led them to suspect that he was under the influence of some violent excitement, and the suspicion was confirmed when he proposed to play at cards. They yielded, but presently the young fellow began to talk quite at random.

"What do you think of the game, mamma?" he asked of a lady who was playing.

All those present looked at each other with consternation and pity.

After this he became quite incoherent. His excitement increased, he began laughing so wildly that no one could doubt that it must end in a violent nervous attack. And, in fact, when they least expected it, he started from his seat, ran to the window, threw it open, and would have flung himself from the balcony, if they had not stopped him. This ended in acute hysterics, which happily were soon over, and then to collapse, compelling him to remain in bed three or four days.

Time at last exerted its soothing power. At the end of a fortnight he was well again, though a prey to extreme dejection, from which his relations and friends vainly strove to rouse him.

His uncle proposed that the brother and sister should continue to live with him, since Raimundo was young to be at the head of a house, and especially to guard and guide Aurelia. He was now three-and-twenty and she eighteen. But neither of them would listen to the plan. They would live alone and together. They took third floor rooms in the Calle de Serrano, very pretty and sunny, and thither they transferred their furniture; once installed there they continued their former life, sadly, no doubt, under the ever present remembrance of their mother, but calmly and contentedly. Raimundo centred all his thoughts and care in Aurelia. Anxious to fulfil his part as father and protector to the young girl, he did for her what his mother had hitherto done for him, surrounding her with kindness, and cherishing her with a tenderness which touched all who saw them. Aurelia was not beautiful nor particularly clever, but for her brother she felt the passionate adoration she had inherited from her mother. Nevertheless, in the details of daily life the young man sorely missed his mother. Aurelia did her utmost to prevent his feeling her absence, but she was far from achieving the same delicate anticipation of his needs. By degrees she became more expert in the management of the house, and Raimundo, on his part, did not look for the refined comfort of a past time. The feeling of guardianship, and the consciousness of his own duties towards his sister, made him think less of himself. If, on the other hand, some little attention from Aurelia came to him as a surprise he accepted it as though from a child. Thus their lives supplemented each other.

They lived humbly; their rent came to twenty dollars; they kept a single maid. Thus their little income of twelve hundred dollars was sufficient for their needs. As it was derived from dividends on State securities and shares in a manufactory, it was regularly paid. Raimundo was able to dedicate himself with renewed ardour to his studies; he longed to fulfil to his sister the promise he had made his mother, of renouncing his share of their inheritance, and saving for her a little fortune which might enable her to marry well. Ever since his illness he had gone twice a week to lay flowers on his mother's grave; on Sundays he took Aurelia with him. As a rule he went out very little. The studies requisite to fit him to compete for a professorship on the one hand, and on the other his passion as a collector and naturalist, absorbed almost the whole of his time. It was a wonder indeed if he were seen in a cafÉ, and being in mourning he did not go to the play.

One day when he happened to be at a bookseller's in the Carrera San Jeronimo, where he frequently amused himself by turning over new works from abroad, an elegantly dressed woman came into the shop. Raimundo's eyes dilated at the vision, resting on her with such a fixed look of admiration, that she was fain to turn away. While she bought a few French novels he contemplated her with rapture and emotion; the book he was holding shook in his hand. As she went out he hastily laid it down to follow her; but a carriage was waiting for her. The man-servant, hat in hand, opened the door, and the horses instantly snatched her from his sight.

"What is it, Don Raimundo?" said the bookseller, as he came into the shop again. "Are you struck by my fair customer?"

The young man smiled to conceal his agitation, and replied with feigned indifference:

"Who could fail to notice such a beautiful creature? Who is she?"

"Do not you know her? She is the wife of a banker named Osorio, and Salabert's daughter."

"Ah! Salabert's daughter! Then she lives in that palace in the Avenue de Luchana?"

"No, SeÑor. She lives in the Calle don Ramon de la Cruz."

He wanted no more. Away he went. This lady bore a singular likeness to his mother. The state of his mind, still grieving and sore, made the resemblance seem to him greater than it really was, and it impressed him vividly. A few minutes later he was walking up and down in front of the Osorios' house; but he did not succeed in catching another glimpse of the lady. The next day he went to walk in the Retiro, and there again he met her. Thenceforth he watched and followed her with a constancy which betrayed the strong hold she had on his feelings. Though he at no time forgot his mother's face, Clementina Salabert brought it yet more vividly before him, and this gave him a pathetic pain in which he revelled, paradoxical as it may seem. But any one who has lost a loved face from the world will understand it; there is a kind of luxury in uncovering the wound, and renewing the pain and regret. Raimundo could not gaze long at Clementina's features without feeling the tears on his cheeks; and this, perhaps, was why he so constantly sought her. In her face there was indeed a hardness and severity which his mother's had never had; but when she smiled and all sternness vanished the resemblance was really amazing.

Our young man was well aware of the annoyance his pursuit caused her. At the same time he could not help laughing to himself at her misapprehension of the case. "If this lady could know," he would say to himself, as he saw her lips curl with scorn, "why she fascinates me so much, how great would her astonishment be!" A current of attraction, it might be said of adoration, drew him to her. But for her forbidding dignity, he might very possibly have addressed her, have explained to her the strange consolation he derived from her presence. But Clementina moved in so distant a sphere that he dreaded her contempt. It was enough that she should so evidently scorn him for his joy in beholding her. On the other hand, he had heard rumours greatly to her discredit; but he took no pains to confirm them—in the first place, because they did not concern him, and also because if they proved to be true he would be compelled to think ill of her, and he could not bear that a woman so like his mother should be, in fact, disreputable. He would know nothing, he would be content to indulge, as often as he could, that strange longing to revive his grief and move himself to tears. As he did not live in fashionable society and could not go to the theatre to procure this satisfaction, he had no choice but to haunt her in the streets or the parks when she was out driving. He also attended Mass on Sundays at the Jeronymite church, and there he could contemplate her at his ease and leisure.

He had told Aurelia of his discovery, but he had not pointed the lady out to her. He was afraid lest Aurelia should not see the likeness so clearly as he did, and should thus despoil him of his illusion. Clementina went out walking two or three times a week, in the afternoon, as she had done on the day when we made her acquaintance. Raimundo, from the window of his study in the Calle de Serrano spied her approach, as from an observatory, and when he discerned her from afar, down he went to follow her as far as he could. This persecution vexed the lady all the more, as it was at this hour that she went to visit her lover. Not that it was a matter of any particular importance that this new connection should become known, but for a remnant of shame which survived in her. No woman, however unblushing, can bear to be seen entering her lover's dwelling.

Moreover, she knew, for she had heard it quite lately, that a husband who, finding out his wife's guilt, kills her on the spot, is held excused. Now, as she knew that Osorio hated her, she was afraid lest he might take advantage of this excuse to get rid of her. These vague terrors, added to that residue of decency, increased her rage against Raimundo. Her violent and imperious temper rose in arms at this unforeseen interference. She had not even paid any particular attention to the young man's appearance. She hated him without troubling herself to look at him. His indifference and submission to the utter contempt which she did not attempt to conceal, was also an offence. It was evident that this youngster was making game of her; if he were love-stricken he could not possibly show so much serene cynicism. No doubt he had discovered that he annoyed her, and meant to insult her out of revenge. And beyond a doubt he succeeded perfectly. The turns she was compelled to take in order to elude him, the visits she paid against her will, and all the terrors his pursuit cost her, rendered him more odious to her every day, and made her blood boil. She went out in the carriage, drove to the Calatravas church, and there dismissed it; but Raimundo, after being deprived for some days of the sight of her, committed the extravagance of taking a hackney coach to keep up with her.

This enraged her beyond measure, and she determined to put an end to the intolerable persecution, though she did not know how. At first she asked Pepe Castro to speak to the youth and threaten him; but on seeing how coolly he took the proposal, she indignantly determined never to return to the subject. Then she thought of addressing him herself in the street, and desiring him, in a few words of freezing scorn, to annoy her no more. But when the opportunity offered she dared not—though timidity was not her besetting sin—the predicament seemed too delicate.

She was still in this state of doubt and hesitancy, when one day, as she went down the Calle de Serrano, happening to look up, she spied the enemy on the look out, high above her. This suggested to her the idea of asking his name and writing to him. And with the vehemence which prompted all her actions she immediately went in, and inquired of the porter:

"Would you be so good as to tell me who lives on the third floor here?"

"A lady and gentleman, both quite young; a brother and sister. They have been here only four months; they are orphans. Not long since, it would seem——"

The woman, seeing so elegant a lady, was ready to be communicative; but Clementina cut her short by asking:

"What is the gentleman's name?"

"Don Raimundo AlcÁzar."

"Many thanks." And she hurried away.

She went out into the street, but it struck her that writing to him would have its disadvantages, and that a verbal explanation would really be more satisfactory, since no one of her acquaintance could know anything about it. For a moment she paused in doubt; then she abruptly faced about and went in again. She passed the portress without saying a word, and lightly ran upstairs. On reaching the third floor, in spite of her determined spirit, her courage was somewhat dashed, and she was on the point of retreating. But her proud and haughty temper spurred her on, as she reflected that the young man must have seen her come in and would suspect her repentance.

There were two doors on the landing. One set of rooms, as Clementina had observed, was to let, so she decided on knocking at the door on the left, since there was a mat outside—plain proof that it was inhabited.

A maid answered the summons, and Clementina asked for Don Raimundo AlcÁzar.

"I wish to see him" she added, on learning that he was at home.

The girl showed her into the drawing-room, and as the visit struck her as strange, she asked whether she should announce it to the SeÑorita.

"No. Tell Don Raimundo I want to speak to him."

He, meanwhile, was sitting in his study, in a state of extreme agitation. On first seeing the lady enter the house, he had been startled without exactly knowing why. He recovered himself on seeing her depart, and was again excited when she came back. The idea that she might be coming up to his rooms flashed across his mind, but he immediately dismissed it as improbable. She must no doubt have come to call on one of the residents on the first or second floor, who were persons of fashion. Still, in spite of all reason, he could not be calm. When he heard the door-bell, he was aghast; he could hardly get so far as the ante-room, and before he could give the maid a sign, she had opened the door, compelling him to beat a hasty retreat. He was tempted to say he was not at home, even though the lady was in the sitting-room; but, after all, he made up his mind to go to her, reflecting that he had no rational motive for refusing.

Raimundo had seen very little of the world. His mother's friends had been few—relations and two or three families of acquaintance. He, on his part, had done nothing to extend the circle, and, as has been said, had formed no intimacies with any of his fellow-students, much less had he any familiarity with the public or private entertainments of the capital. His youth and early manhood had been happily spent at home, in studying and arranging his butterflies. He knew life only from books. At the same time Nature had bestowed on him a frank and simple temper, some ease of speech, and a certain dignity of manner, which amply made up for the polish and distinction produced by constant friction with the upper ranks of society.

He went into the drawing-room with perfect composure, nay, with a lurking sense of hostility roused by the lady's eccentric proceeding. He bowed low on entering. The situation was, in fact, so strange, that Clementina, in spite of her pride, her experience, and her indifference—it might almost be said her effrontery, was suddenly at a loss. It was only by an effort that she recovered her spirit.

"Here I am, you see," she said in a sharp tone, which was strangely inappropriate and discourteous.

"To what do I owe the honour of your visit?" replied Raimundo in a rather tremulous voice.

"Well—" she paused for a moment, "you owe it to the honour you do me of following me everywhere like my shadow, as you have been doing these past two months. Do you suppose that it can be agreeable to be haunted whenever I appear in the street? In short, you have made me quite nervous, and to avoid injury to my health I have taken the ridiculous step of coming up here to beg you to cease your pursuit. If you have anything interesting to say to me say it at once and have done."

She spoke the words impetuously, as feeling herself in a false position, and wishing to get out of it by an exaggerated display of annoyance.

Raimundo looked at her in amazement, and this vexed Clementina, and added to her vehemence.

"SeÑora, I am grieved to the soul to think that I should have offended you; nothing could be further from my intentions. If you could only know the feelings your face arouses in me!" he stammered out.

Clementina broke in:

"If you are about to make me a declaration of love, you may save yourself the trouble. I am married; and if I were not it would be just the same."

"No, SeÑora, I have no such confession to make," said the young entomologist with a smile. "I will explain the matter. I can quite understand your having misunderstood the sentiments which prompt me, and it is natural that you should feel offended. How far you must be from suspecting the truth! I have not fallen in love with you. If I had I should certainly not follow you like a sort of street pirate—above all, under the circumstances——"

Here Raimundo looked grave, and paused. Then he added precipitately, in a voice husky with emotion:

"My mother died not long since, and you are wonderfully like her."

He looked at her, as he spoke, with anxious attentiveness; there were tears in his eyes, and it was only by a great effort that he checked a sob.

The confession roused Clementina's surprise and doubts. She stood still gazing at him for her part with fixed inquiry. Raimundo understood what must be passing in her mind, and opening the door into his study, he said:

"See for yourself. See if what I say is not the truth."

The lady advanced a few steps, and saw on the wall facing her, above the writing-table, an enlarged photograph of an exceptionally lovely woman, who, no doubt, bore some resemblance to herself, though it was not so striking as the young man fancied. The frame was wreathed with immortelles.

"We are somewhat alike," said she, after studying the portrait attentively. "But this lady was far more beautiful than I."

"No, not more beautiful. Her eyes were softer, and that gave her face an indescribable charm. It was her pure and loving soul which shone through them."

He spoke with ardour, not heeding the want of gallantry the words implied. Clementina's pride suffered all the more from the simplicity and conviction of his tone; both contemplated the picture for a few seconds in silence. Tears trembled in Raimundo's eyes. At last the lady asked:

"How old was your mother?"

"Forty-one."

"And I am five-and-thirty," she replied, with ill-disguised satisfaction.

Raimundo looked at her once more.

"Yes, you are younger and handsomer. But my mother's complexion was finer, though she was some years older. Her skin was as soft as satin, and there was no worn look about her eyes; they were like a child's. It was very natural. My mother's life was calm and uneventful; she had done nothing to wear out her body or soul."

He was quite unconscious of implying anything rude to the lady whom he addressed. She was indeed exceedingly nettled, but she did not dare to show it, for the youth's grief and perfect sincerity inspired her with respect. She therefore changed the subject, glancing round the study, with some curiosity.

"You collect butterflies it would seem."

"Yes, SeÑora, from my childhood, and I have succeeded in getting together a very respectable number of varieties. I have some very beautiful and curious species—look here."

Clementina went to one of the cabinets. Raimundo eagerly opened it and placed a tray in her hand full of lovely creatures of the most brilliant hues.

"They really are very pretty and strange. Of what use are they when you have got them? Do you sell them?"

"No, SeÑora," said he with a smile, "my object is purely scientific."

"Ah!" And she glanced at him with surprise. Clementina had very little sympathy with men of science, but they inspired her with a vague respect mingled with awe, as beings of another race in whom some people discerned superior merits.

"Then you are a naturalist?" she inquired.

"I am studying with that view. My father was a naturalist."

While he displayed his precious collection—not without the condescension with which the learned explain their labours to the profane—he gave her some insight into his simple existence. As he spoke of his mother's illness emotion again got the better of him, and the tears rose to his eyes. Clementina listened with interest, looking meanwhile at the drawers he placed before her, and speaking a few words of admiration of the martyred insects, or of sympathy as Raimundo related his mother's death. She affected to be cool and at her ease, but she could not quite dissemble her embarrassment in the anomalous situation to which her strange action had given rise.

She released herself abruptly, as she did everything. She quite gravely held out her hand to the young man, saying:

"Many thanks for your kindness, SeÑor AlcÁzar. I am glad to find that I have not been the object of such a pursuit as I had supposed. At the same time, nevertheless, I beg you not to repeat it. I am married, you see; it might be thought that I encouraged it, or had given you some reason——"

"Be quite easy, SeÑora. From the moment when I know that it annoys you it shall cease. Forgive me on the score of the motive," and he pressed her hand with a natural and frank sympathy, which achieved the conquest of the lady. But she did not show it; on the contrary, she looked sternly grave and turned to go. Raimundo followed her, and as he passed her to open the door, he said with a smile of engaging candour:

"I am but a nobody, SeÑora, but if some day you should wish to make use of my insignificant services, you cannot imagine what pleasure it would be to me!"

"Thanks, thanks," said Clementina drily, without pausing.

As they reached the door opening on the stairs, just as he was about to open it, Raimundo caught sight of his sister's little head peeping inquisitively into the passage.

"Come here, Aurelia," said he.

But the girl paid no heed and hastily withdrew.

"Aurelia, Aurelia!"

Very much against her will she came out into the anteroom, and approached smiling and as red as a cherry.

"This is the lady of whom I spoke to you as being so like mamma."

Aurelia looked at her not knowing what to say, still smiling and blushing.

"Do you not think her very like?"

"I do not see it," replied his sister after a moment's hesitation.

"There, you see!" exclaimed Clementina, turning to him with a smile. "It was only a fancy, an hallucination on your part."

There was a touch of annoyance in her tone. Aurelia's advent made her position more false than ever.

"Never mind," said Raimundo, "I see the resemblance clearly, and that is enough."

The door was standing open.

"So pleased," said Clementina, addressing Aurelia without offering her hand, but with one of those frigid and condescending bows by which a woman of fashion at once establishes the distance which divides her from a new acquaintance.

Aurelia murmured a few polite words. Raimundo went out on the landing to take leave of her, repeating his polite and cordial speeches, which did not seem to impress the lady, to judge from her grave reserve. She went downstairs, dissatisfied with herself and full of obscure irritation. It was not the first time, nor the second, that her impetuous nature had placed her in such a ridiculous and anomalous position.