“It was near noon, and dinner in a cool low apartment near the garden awaited only the approach of Father Jose, the confessor. He arrived at length. He was a man of an imposing figure, mounted on a stately mule. His features, at first view, bore strong traces of thought; but, on closer examination, those traces seemed rather the result of physical conformation, than of any intellectual exercise. The channel was open, but the stream had not been directed there. However, though defective in education, and somewhat narrow in mind, Father Jose was a good man, and meant well. He loved power, and he was devoted to the interests of the Catholic church; but he had frequently doubts, (which he kept to himself), of the absolute necessity of celibacy, and he felt (strange effect!) a chill all over him when he heard of the fires of an _auto da fe_. Dinner was concluded; the fruit and wine, the latter untasted by the females, were on the table,--the choicest of them placed before Father Jose,--when Isidora, after a profound reverence to her mother and the priest, retired, as usual, to her apartment. Donna Clara turned to the confessor with a look that demanded to be answered. “It is her hour for siesta,” said the priest, helping himself to a bunch of grapes. “No, Father, no!” said Donna Clara sadly; “her maid informs me she does not retire to sleep. She was, alas! too well accustomed to that burning climate where she was lost in her infancy, to feel the heat as a Christian should. No, she retires neither to pray or sleep, after the devout custom of Spanish women, but, I fear, to”---- “To do what?” said the priest, with horror in his voice--“To think, I fear,” said Donna Clara; “for often I observe, on her return, the traces of tears on her face. I tremble, Father, lest those tears be shed for that heathen land, that region of Satan, where her youth was past.”--“I’ll give her a penance,” said Father Jose, “that will save her the trouble of shedding tears on the score of memory at least--these grapes are delicious.”--“But, Father,” pursued Donna Clara, with all the weak but restless anxiety of a superstitious mind, “though you have made me easy on that subject, I still am wretched. Oh, Father, how she will talk sometimes!--like a creature self-taught, that needed neither director or confessor but her own heart.”--“How!” exclaimed Father Jose, “need neither confessor or director!--she must be beside herself.”--“Oh, Father,” continued Donna Clara, “she will say things in her mild and unanswerable manner, that, armed with all my authority, I”---- “How--how is that?” said the priest, in a tone of severity--“does she deny any of the tenets of the holy Catholic church?”--“No! no! no!” said the terrified Donna Clara crossing herself. “How then?”--“Why, she speaks in a manner in which I never heard you, reverend Father, or any of the reverend brethren, whom my devotion to the holy church has led me to hear, speak before.