iscretion in the life of most women, of
which they have a dislike to be reminded. Was it so with Rosarita? She
was silent for a while, as if her rebellious memory could not recall the
particulars mentioned by Tiburcio.

"No," at length answered she, in a tone so low as not to betray a slight
trembling of her voice, "I do not forget, but we were then only
children--to-day--"

"To-day," interrupted Tiburcio in a tone of bitter reproach, "to-day
that is all forgotten, since a Senator from Arispe has condescended to
comprise you in his projects of ambition."

The melodious voice of Rosarita was now heard in a tone of disdainful
anger. Tiburcio had wounded her pride.

"Comprise me in his projects of ambition," said she, her beautiful
nostrils curving scornfully as she spoke, "and who has told you, senor,
that it is not I who condescend?"

"This stranger, too," continued Tiburcio, still preserving his
reproachful manner, "this Don Estevan--whom I hate even worse than the
Senator--has talked to you of the pleasures of Madrid--of the wonderful
countries that lie beyond the sea--and you wish to see them with your
own eyes!"

"Indeed I acknowledge," answered Rosarita, "that in these deserts life
appears to me dull enough. Something tells me that I was not made to
die without taking part in those splendours of the world of which I have
heard so much. What can you offer to me--to my father?"

"I understand now," cried Tiburcio with despairing bitterness, "to be
poor, an orphan, unhappy--these are not the titles to win the heart of a
woman."

"You are unjust, Tiburcio. It is almost always the very reverse that
happens--for it is the instinct of a woman to prefer those who are as
you say. But it is different with fathers, who, alas! rarely share this
preference with their daughters."

There was in these last words a sort of tacit avowal which Tiburcio
evidently did not comprehend--for he continued his reproaches and bitter
recriminations, causing the young girl many a sigh as she listened to
them.

"Of course you love this Senator," said he. "Do not talk, then, of
being compelled!"

"Who talks of being compelled?" said Rosarita, hastily interrupting the
young man. "I said nothing of compulsion, I only spoke of the desire
which my father has already manifested; and against his will, the hopes
you may have conceived would be nothing more than chimeras or idle
dreams."

"And this will of your father is to throw