which he hoped to buy a little house
and a bit of good land.

"I don't know beans about farming," he added, "but that's like
everything else. You learn by doing. Moreover, my son, who has grown up
in the town, will help me a great deal."

Don Adolfo wrinkled his brow with a grave and reflective expression,
like a man who is remembering something.

"From what you say," he exclaimed, "I think I know who your wife is."

The old engineer felt shame. The bleeding image of his misfortune was
hard to wipe from his memory. The mention of his wife had freshened it.
He answered;

"You probably do know her. The village must be very small."

"Very small, indeed. What's your wife's name?"

"Rafaela."

"Yes, yes," answered Don Adolfo. "Rafaela's the woman. I know her well.
As for Manolo, your son, I know him too."

Amadeo Zureda trembled. He felt afraid, and cold. For a few moments he
remained silent, without knowing what to say. Don Adolfo continued with
rough frankness:

"Your Manolo is a pretty tough nut, and he gives his poor mother a
mighty hard time. She's a saint, that woman. I think he even beats her.
Well, I won't tell you any more."

Pale and trembling, putting down a great desire to weep which had just
come over him, Amadeo asked:

"Is it possible? Can he be as bad as that?"

"I tell you he's a dandy!" repeated Don Adolfo. "If he died, the devil
would think a good while before taking him. He's a drunkard and a
gambler, always chasing women and fighting. He's the limit!" After a
moment he added: "Really, he don't seem like a son of yours, at all."

Amadeo Zureda made no answer. Looking out of the car window, he tried to
distract himself with the landscape. The old conductor's words had
crushed him. He had been ignorant of all this, for Rafaela in her
letters had said nothing about it. He was astonished at realizing how
evil destiny was attacking him, denying him that rest which every
hard-working man, no matter how poor, is at last entitled to.

Retracing the hateful pathway of his memories, he reached the source of
all his misfortunes. Twenty years before, when Senor Tomas had told him
of the relations between Rafaela and Manolo, he too had declared: "They
say he beats her."

What connection might there be between these statements, which seemed to
weave a nexus of hate between the son and the dead lover? Once more the
words of the old conductor sounded in his ears, and prophetically took
hold upon his