rria, to interfere for the
prevention of the designs of Providence? And cousins too--the young
cavalier so gallant, so handsome--and--so generous with his money. Had
he not even kissed Manuela herself one night when he came coaxing her to
contrive something? _Who_ could resist him after that? And what was a
hand thrust through the _rejas_? What a kiss if the bars of the grille
happened to be broken. A glass that is drunk from, being washed, is
clean as before. And when Ramon Garcia, that great Aragonese oaf, kissed
little Dolores, what knew he of pretty Don Rafael de Flores, the
_alcalde's_ son? They had been lovers since childhood, and there was no
harm. 'Twas pity surely, to part them before the time. Rafael was to
marry the rich Donna Felesia, the daughter of the vine-grower of
Montblanch, who farmed the revenues of the great abbey. He could not
marry pretty little Dolores! It was a pity--yes, but--she had a feeling
heart, this Manuela, the priest's housekeeper, and the trade had been a
paying one since the beginning of the world.

"Padre--Padre Mateo!" she cried, raising her voice to the pitch
calculated by long experience to reach the father in his study. "Come
down quickly. Here is Don Ramon to speak with your reverence!"

"Don Ramon--what Don Ramon?" growled a voice from the stair-head, a rich
baritone organ, unguented with daily dole of oil and wine, not to speak
of well-buttered trout in a lordly dish, and with rappee coloured red
with the umber of Carthagena to give timbre and richness thereto. It was
the voice of Don Mateo Balin, most pious and sacerdotal vicar of Christ
in the township of Sarria.

"Don Ramon Garcia, most reverend father!" said Manuela, somewhat
impatiently. "If you will tap your snuff-box a little less often, you
will be all the sooner able to hear what he has to say to you!"

"_Don_ Ramon, indeed!--here's advancement," grumbled the priest,
good-humouredly descending the staircase one step at a time. To do this
he held his body a little sideways and let himself down as if uncertain
of the strength of the Presbytery stairs, which were of stone of
Martorel, solid as the altar steps of St. Peter's.

"Good, good!" he thought to himself, "Manuela wants something of this
chuckle-head that she goes Don-ing him, and, I wager, battening him with
compliments as greasy as an old wife's cookery the first day after Lent.
'Tis only eggs in the pan that are buttered, and I wonder why she has
been butt