“They had been some time on their way, when Donna Clara, who never spoke till after a long preface of silence, perhaps to give what she said a weight it might otherwise have wanted, said, with oracular deliberation, “Daughter, I hear you fainted in the public walks last night--did you meet with any thing that surprised or terrified you?”--“No, Madam.”--“What, then, could be the cause of the emotion you betrayed at the sight, as I am told--I know nothing--of a personage of extraordinary demeanour?”--“Oh, I cannot, dare not tell!” said Isidora, dropping her veil over her burning cheek. Then the irrepressible ingenuousness of her former nature, rushing over her heart and frame like a flood, she sunk from the cushion on which she sat at Donna Clara’s feet, exclaiming, “Oh, mother, I will tell you all!”--“No!” said Donna Clara, repelling her with a cold feeling of offended pride; “no!--there is no occasion. I seek no confidence withheld and bestowed in the same breath; nor do I like these violent emotions--they are unmaidenly. Your duties as a child are easily understood--they are merely perfect obedience, profound submission, and unbroken silence, except when you are addressed by me, your brother, or Father Jose. Surely no duties were ever more easily performed--rise, then, and cease to weep. If your conscience disturbs you, accuse yourself to Father Jose, who will, no doubt, inflict a penance proportioned to the enormity of your offence. I trust only he will not err on the side of indulgence.” And so saying, Donna Clara, who had never uttered so long a speech before, reclined back on her cushion, and began to tell her beads with much devotion, till the arrival of the carriage at its destination awoke her from a profound and peaceful sleep.