At this time, Ponciana, the pretty daughter of Pancho, the _cargador_, returned from Mission school to her proud family. After her there trailed, later, her sweetheart, Amado. And after Amado, in turn, came the deluge. For untoward things began to occur. First was the falling in love of poor homely Bendita. This, of course, was all right; any woman can fall in love with any man, if she so elects. But ordinary decency demands that she at least restrain her passion when the betrothed of another woman is concerned. And it was Amado, Ponciana’s novio, upon whom Bendita needs must cast eyes. Of course, it was absurd. For Bendita was square, fat, and flat (if you can figure to yourself such a combination), while Ponciana was exceedingly sweet and pretty. Besides, she had been taught in Mission school, knew some English and much quaint slang, and was a fascinating little Indian maiden. “La Ponciana, she knows _much_,” had been Amado’s glowing description to that potent personage, his mother. “She plays the piano and guitar well, and sings, aye, as do the birds! And she dances in a manner entirely exquisite--and sews and embroiders.” Despite all this eloquence, however, Amado, after due temptation, heartlessly jilted Ponciana for the unattractive and homely Bendita. It happened thus: Unable to make any impression on the handsome Amado, despite her sighs and eye-rolling, Bendita at length decided to take, as it were, a back seat, and merely view from afar her beloved, who nightly paraded in the plaza with his beloved. And here it was, one evening, that a brilliant thought came to Bendita. It was an ideal night, “one borrowed from Paradise,” as the poetical Amado had murmured to his Ponciana. Great bright stars blazed in a velvety-blue sky, while silvery moonlight cast a radiance over the beautiful tropical plaza, wherein fountains trickled musically, and glowing flowers of the tropics heavily perfumed the soft, languid air. From the remote band-stand came sweet, faint strains of the exquisite “Angel de Amor,” while the lowered voices of many gay loungers murmured in musical harmony therewith. Every one seemed so happy that it was no wonder that tears came to Bendita’s eyes, as she sat, alone and neglected, in her solitary corner. “I have so much homeliness,” she thought, drearily; “no one will ever wish me for a _novia_--_ay de mi_!” Again Amado and Ponciana passed by, Ponciana smiling and dimpling. She wore a white _mantilla_, while on her finger there was a genuine ring of gold, set with a white stone that sparkled in the moonlight. It was the ring of betrothal, that day given. Amado, being poor, had secured it cheaply from a pawnshop. But Ponciana did not know. As she gayly flitted by, Bendita noted the sparkle of the ring. “It is like the little glass jewels,” she pondered. “How Amado seems to like it! I might--I might wear those at home. They sparkle, too.”