ll the florid exuberance of the handsome _sinor
Martines_.

Even now, while complaining that her daughter would have to take the
long walk on winter mornings, she could not help feasting her eyes on
that head of tangled golden hair out there under the olive tree, those
dreamy sea-green eyes, that white skin that neither sun nor wind could
darken, flecked now by the shadows of the branches which the moon
outlined in arabesques of light and shade on the girl's face. Roseta,
with her air of a maiden who knows all there is to know, kept looking
from Dolores to Tonet and from Tonet to Dolores. At the fulsome praises
that Pascualo kept showering upon his brother--for drifting away from
the waster's life he had been leading to spend more and more of his time
in that house where he found a peaceful, homelike kindliness he had
never known in his own--the young half-sister smiled sarcastically. Oh,
these men, these men! Just as she and mama had always said! Either
scamps like Tonet, or puddingheads, like the Rector. Men! She would have
none of them! And the Cabanal could never make out why she refused every
boy who proposed to her! She would never have one of the wretched
animals kicking around between her feet. She had taken well to heart all
the curses she had heard her mother heap on men in her bitterest moments
of despair down there in the loneliness and gloom of the tavern-boat.

No one had spoken for some time. The fish continued sizzling in the
frying-pan. Tonet was still picking disconnected chords from his
mandolin. The band of youngsters playing in the street were staring up
at the moon as though they had never seen it before, singing in cadenced
monotone with silvery little voices:

_La lluna, la pruna_
_Vestida de dol ..._

"Eh, will you brats shut up!" Tonet protested, claiming that he had a
headache. "You come and make us!" came the answering challenge:

_Sa mare la crida;_
_Son pare no vol ..._

And the dog joined in this children's hymn of adoration to Diana's
glory, with barks that filled the neighborhood with chills.

The Rector could think of nothing but the boat. Everything had been
fixed for the fifteenth, even the matter of the curate, who would go and
give her a dash of holy water in the middle of the afternoon.
Everything, except one thing, _futro!_ And that had occurred to him that
very moment! Of course! She never had been named ...! Well, what shall
we call her? This unexpected