a character of the pueblo. He had once been a student in
philosophy, but abandoned his course at the demands of his mother. The
good woman, finding that her son had talent, feared lest he become a
savant and forget God; she let him choose, therefore, between studying
for the priesthood and leaving the college of San Jose. He was in love,
took the latter course, and married. Widowed and orphaned within a
year, he found in books a deliverance from sadness, idleness, and
the gallera. Unhappily he studied too much, bought too many books,
neglected to care for his fortune, and came to financial ruin. Some
people called him Don Astasio, or Tasio the philosopher; others,
and by far the greater number, Tasio the fool.

The afternoon threatened a tempest. Pale flashes of lightning illumined
the leaden sky; the atmosphere was heavy and close.

Arrived at the church door, Tasio entered and spoke to two little boys,
one ten years old perhaps, the other seven.

"Coming with me?" he asked. "Your mother has ready a dinner fit
for curates."

"The head sacristan won't let us leave yet," said the elder. "We're
going into the tower to ring the bells."

"Take care! don't go too near the bells in the storm," said Tasio, and,
head down, he went off, thinking, toward the outskirts of the town.

Soon the rain came down in torrents, the thunder echoed clap on clap,
each detonation preceded by an awful zig-zag of fire. The tempest
grew in fury, and, scarce able to ride on the shifting wind, the
plaintive voices of the bells rang out a lamentation.

The boys were in the tower, the younger, timid, in spite of his great
black eyes, hugging close to his brother. They resembled one another,
but the elder had the stronger and more thoughtful face. Their dress
was poor, patched, and darned. The wind beat in the rain a little,
where they were, and set the flame of their candle dancing.

"Pull your rope, Crispin," said the elder to his little brother.

Crispin pulled, and heard a feeble plaint, quickly silenced by
a thunder crash. "If we were only home with mama," he mourned,
"I shouldn't be afraid."

The other did not answer. He watched the candle melt, and seemed
thoughtful.

"At least, no one there would call me a thief; mama would not have
it. If she knew they had beaten me----" The elder gave the great cord
a sharp pull; a deep, sonorous tone trembled out.

"Pay what they say I stole! Pay it, brother!"

"Are you mad, Crispin? Mama wo