come louder and louder, so the surge
of Maria Remedios' grief rose and swelled, until it at last broke forth
in a flood of tears.

CHAPTER XXVII

A CANON'S TORTURE

"Resignation, resignation!" repeated Don Inocencio.

"Resignation, resignation!" repeated his niece, drying her tears. "If my
dear son is doomed to be always a beggar, well, then, be it so. Lawsuits
are becoming scarce; the day will soon come when the practice of the law
will be the same as nothing. What is the use of all his talent? What is
the use of his tiring his brain with so much study? Ah! We are poor.
A day will come, Senor Don Inocencio, when my poor boy will not have a
pillow on which to lay his head."

"Woman!"

"Man! can you deny it? Tell me, then, what inheritance are you going
to leave him when you close your eyes on this world? A couple of rooms,
half a dozen big books, poverty, and nothing more. What times are before
us, uncle; what times! My poor boy is growing very delicate in his
health, and he won't be able to work--it makes him dizzy now to read a
book; he gets a headache and nausea whenever he works at night! He will
have to beg a paltry situation; I shall have to take in sewing, and who
knows, who knows but we may have to beg our bread!"

"Woman!"

"Oh, I know very well what I am talking about! Fine times before us!"
added the excellent woman, forcing still more the lachrymose note in
her diatribe. "My God! What is going to become of us? Ah, it is only a
mother's heart that can feel these things! Only a mother is capable
of suffering so much anxiety about a son's welfare. How should you
understand it? No; it is one thing to have children and to suffer
anxiety on their account and another to sing the _gori gori_ in the
cathedral and to teach Latin in the institute. Of great use is it for
my son to be your nephew and to have taken so many honors and to be
the pride and ornament of Orbajosa. He will die of starvation, for we
already know what law brings; or else he will have to ask the deputies
for a situation in Havana, where the yellow fever will kill him."

"But, niece--"

"No, I am not grieving, I am silent now; I won't annoy you any more.
I am very troublesome, always crying and sighing; and I am not to be
endured because I am a fond mother and I will look out for the good of
my beloved son. I will die, yes, I will die in silence, and stifle my
grief. I will swallow my tears, in order not to annoy his reverence the