‘Then you would have Julia marry this terrible man,’ said the lady, shielding her face from the sun with the black fan which she always carried. ‘I am too old and too stupid to take any active part in my neighbours’ affairs. It is only the young and inexperienced who are competent to do that,’ answered the priest. ‘But you say you are fond of Julia.’ ‘Yes,’ said the priest quietly. ‘I wonder why.’ ‘So do I,’ he said in a tone that Señora Barenna never understood. ‘You are always kinder to her than you are to me,’ went on the lady in her most martyred manner. ‘Her penances are always lighter than mine. You are patient with her and not with me. And I am sure I have never done you any injury—’ The old Padre smiled. Perhaps he was thinking of those illusions which she had during the years pulled down one by one—for the greater peace of his soul. ‘There is the carriage,’ he said. ‘Let us hasten to General Vincente—if you wish to see him.’ In a few minutes they were rattling along the road, while Esteban Larralde and Julia sat side by side in the shade of the great wall that surrounded the fruit garden. And one at least of them was gathering that quick harvest of love which is like the grass of the field, inasmuch as to-day it is, and to-morrow is not. General Vincente was at home. He was one of those men who are happy in finding themselves where they are wanted. So many have, on the contrary, the misfortune to be always absent when they are required, and the world soon learns to progress without them. ‘That man—that Larralde is in Ronda,’ said Señora Barenna, bursting in on the General’s solitude. Vincente smiled, and nevertheless exchanged a quick glance with Concha, who confirmed the news by a movement of his shaggy eyebrows. ‘Ah, these young people!’ exclaimed the General with a gay little sigh. ‘What it is to be young and in love! But be seated, Iñez—be seated. Padre—a chair.’ ‘What do you propose to do?’ asked Señora Barenna breathlessly, for she was stout and agitated and had hurried up the steps. ‘When, my dear Iñez—when?’ ‘But now—with this man in Ronda. You know quite well he is dangerous. He is a Carlist. It was only the other day that you received an anonymous letter saying that your life was in danger. Of course it was from the Carlists, and Larralde has something to do with it; or that Englishman—that Señor Conyngham with the blue eyes. A man with blue eyes—bah! Of course he is not to be trusted.’ The receiver of the anonymous warning seemed to be amused. ‘A little sweeping, your statements, my dear Iñez. Is it not so? Now, a lemonade! the afternoon is warm.’ He rose and rang the bell. ‘My nerves,’ whispered the Señora to Concha. ‘My nerves—they are so easily upset.’ ‘The liqueurs,’ said the General to the servant with perfect gravity.