before you were born. Your poor mother was very
beautiful."

But his daughter did not manifest any great enthusiasm over the picture.
It seemed strange to her. Why was the head at one end of the canvas?
What was he going to add? What did those lines mean? The master tried to
explain, almost blushing, afraid to tell his intention to his daughter,
suddenly overcome by paternal modesty. He was not sure as yet what he
would do; he had to decide on a dress to suit her. And in a sudden
access of tenderness, his eyes grew moist and he kissed his daughter.

"Do you remember her well, Milita? She was very good, wasn't she?"

His daughter felt infected by her father's sadness, but only for a
moment. Her strength, health and joy of life soon threw off these sad
impressions. Yes, very good. She often thought about her. Perhaps she
spoke the truth; but these memories were not deep nor painful. Death
seemed to her a thing without meaning, a remote incident without much
terror which did not disturb the serene calm of her physical perfection.

"Poor mamma," she added in a forced tone. "It was a relief for her to
go. Always sick, always sad! With such a life it is better to die!"

In her words there was a trace of bitterness, the memory of her youth,
spent with that touchy invalid, in an atmosphere made the more
unpleasant by the hostile chill with which her parents treated each
other. Besides, her expression was icy. We all must die. The weak must
go first and leave their place to the strong. It was the unconscious,
cruel selfishness of health. Renovales suddenly saw his daughter's soul
through this rent of frankness. The dead woman had known them both. The
daughter was his, wholly his. He, too, possessed that selfishness in his
strength which had made him crush weakness and delicacy placed under his
protection. Poor Josephina had only him left, repentant and adoring. For
the other people, she had not passed through the world; not even his
daughter felt any lasting sorrow at her death.

Milita turned her back to the portrait. She forgot her mother and her
father's work. An artist's hobby! She had come for something else.

She sat down beside him, almost in the same way that another woman had
sat down, a few hours before. She coaxed him with her rich voice, which
took on a sort of cat-like purring. Papa,--papa, dear,--she was very
unhappy. She came to see him, to tell him her troubles.

"Yes, money," said the master, somewhat ann