tip-tilted
nose and the roguish line of his mouth were his mother's. From his
father, no doubt, he had inherited the thoughtful forehead and the heavy
set of his jaws. And at the same time you were reminded of his godfather
by his lively ways and by a peculiar manner he had of throwing out his
feet, when he walked. It seemed almost as if the clever little fellow
had set his mind on looking like everybody who had stood near his
baptismal font, so that he could win the love of them all.

Zureda worshiped the boy, laughed at all his tricks and graces, and
spent hours playing with him on the tiles of the passageway. Little
Manolo pulled his mustache and necktie, mauled him and broke the crystal
of his watch. Far from getting angry, the engineer loved him all the
more for it, as if his strong, rough heart were melting with adoration.

One evening Rafaela went down to the station to say good-by to her
husband, who was taking out the 7.05 express. In her arms she carried
the boy. Pedro, the fireman, looked out of the cab, and made both the
mother and son laugh by pulling all sorts of funny faces.

"Here's the toothache face!" he announced. "And here's the stomach-ache
face!"

Then the bell rang, and they heard the vibrant whistle of the
station-master.

"Here, give me the boy!" cried Zureda.

He wanted to kiss him good-by. The little fellow stretched out his tiny
arms to his father.

"Take me! Take me, papa!" he entreated with a lisping tongue, his words
full of love and charm.

Poor Zureda! The idea of leaving the boy, at that moment, stabbed him to
the heart. He could not bear to let him go; he could not! Hardly knowing
what he was about, he pressed the youngster to his breast with one hand,
and with the other eased open the throttle. The train started. Rafaela,
terrified, ran along the platform, screaming:

"Give him, give him to me!"

But already, even though Zureda had wanted to give him back, it was too
late. Rafaela ran to the end of the platform, and there she had to stop.
Pedro laughed and gesticulated from the blackness of the tender, bidding
her farewell.

The young woman went back home, in tears. Manolo Berlanga had just got
home. He had been drinking and was in the devil's own humor.

"Well, what's up now?" he demanded.

Inconsolable, sobbing, Rafaela told him what had happened.

"Is _that_ all?" interrupted the silversmith. "Say, you're crazy! If
he's gone, so much the better. Now he'll leave us