itar vibrated under the touch of master fingers, and a rich
sweet tenor sang to her:--

EL CORAZON

"El corazon del amor palpita,
Al oir de tu dulce voz,
Cuando mi sangre
Se pone en agitacion,
Tu eres la mas hermosa,
Tu eres la luz del dia,
Tu eres la gloria mia,
Tu eres mi dulce bien.

"Negro tienes el cabello,
Talle lineas hermosas,
Mano blanca, pie precioso,
No hay que decir en ti:--Tu
eres la mas hermosa,
Tu eres la luz del dia,
Tu eres la prenda mia,
Tu me haras morir.

"Que importa que noche y dia,
En ti sola estoy pensando,
El corazon palpitante
No cesa de repetir:--
Tu eres la mas hermosa,
Tu eres la luz del dia,
Tu eres la prenda mia,
Tu me haras morir--Eulogia!"

Eulogia lay as quiet as a mouse in the daytime, not daring to applaud,
hoping fatigue had sent her mother to sleep. Her lover tuned his guitar
and began another song, but she did not hear it; she was listening to
footfalls in the garret above. With a presentiment of what was about
to happen she sprang out of bed with a warning cry; but she was too
late. There was a splash and rattle on the window-seat, a smothered
curse, a quick descent, a triumphant laugh from above. Eulogia stamped
her foot with rage. She cautiously raised the window and passed her hand
along the outer sill. This time she beat the casement with both hands:
they were covered with warm ashes.

"Well, my daughter, have I not won the battle?" said a voice behind her,
and Eulogia sat down on the window-seat and swung her feet in silent
wrath.

Dona Pomposa wore a rather short night-gown, and her feet were encased
in a pair of her husband's old boots. Her hair was twisted under a red
silk kerchief, and again she crossed her hands on her stomach, but the
thumbs upheld a candle. Eulogia giggled suddenly.

"What dost thou laugh at, senorita? At the way I have served thy lover?
Dost thou think he will come soon again?"

"No, mamma, you have proved the famous hospitality of the Californians
which the Americans are always talking about. You need have no more
envy of the magnificence of Los Quervos." And then she kicked her heels
against the wall.

"Oh, thou canst make sharp speeches, thou impertinent little brat; but
Juan Tornel will serenade under thy window no more. Dios! the ashes must
look well on his pretty mustachios. Go to bed. I will put thee to board
in the convent to-morrow." And she shuffled out of the room, he