ld it not be told?) had been a laundress in the house of Polentinos.
And let it not be supposed that Dona Perfecta looked down upon her
on this account--nothing of the kind. She behaved to her without any
haughtiness; she felt a real sisterly affection for her; they ate
together; they prayed together; they confided their troubles to each
other; they aided each other in their charities and in their devotions
as well as in domestic matters; but, truth to say, there was always a
something, there was always a line, invisible but which could not be
crossed between the improvised lady and the lady by birth and ancestry.
Dona Perfecta addressed Maria as "thou," while the latter could never
lay aside certain ceremonial forms. Maria Remedios always felt herself
so insignificant in the presence of her uncle's friend that her natural
humility had acquired through this feeling a strange tinge of sadness.
She saw that the good canon was a species of perpetual Aulic councillor
in the house; she saw her idolized Jacintillo mingling on terms of
almost lover-like familiarity with the young lady, and nevertheless the
poor mother and niece visited the house as little as possible. It is to
be observed that Maria Remedios' dignity as a lady suffered not a little
in Dona Perfecta's house, and this was disagreeable to her; for in this
sighing spirit, too, there was, as there is in every living thing, a
little pride. To see her son married to Rosarito, to see him rich and
powerful; to see him related to Dona Perfecta, to the senora--ah! this
was for Maria Remedios earth and heaven, this life and the next, the
present and the future, the supreme totality of existence. For years
her mind and her heart had been filled by the light of this sweet hope.
Because of this hope she was good and she was bad; because of it she
was religious and humble, or fierce and daring; because of it she was
whatever she was--for without this idea Maria, who was the incarnation
of her project, would not exist.

In person, Maria Remedios could not be more insignificant than she was.
She was remarkable for a surprising freshness and robustness which made
her look much younger than she really was, and she always dressed in
mourning, although her widowhood was now of long standing.

Five days had passed since the entrance of Caballuco into the
Penitentiary's house. It was evening. Remedios entered her uncle's room
with the lighted lamp, which she placed on the table. She