I had no longer any doubt of their being the daughters of Don Eusebio, though both were veiled to the eyes. Over the eyes in fact: since their shawls were carried _tapado_. Instead of hanging from the shoulder, they were drawn across the crown of the head, and held under the chin-- so as completely to conceal the countenance! The black Spanish eye sparkling in shadow was all that could have been seen; though I saw it not: as I was at some distance behind them. I saw that of Tia Josefa--as she turned, on perceiving my shadow projected before her on the pavement. There was a sudden glance, accompanied by the bristling of a fan, as the maternal hen ruffles her feathers when the shadow of the hawk is seen sailing towards her chicks. Only for an instant was I the object of _aunt_ Josefa's suspicion. My meek look, directed towards the "White Sister," at once reassured her. I was not the bird of prey she had been cautioned to keep guard against: and, after a cursory glance at me, she went on after her pair of proteges. I did likewise. Though they were dressed exactly in the same style--wearing black lace shawls, with high combs holding them above their heads--though their figures were scarce to be distinguished in height, shape, or _tournure_--though the backs of both were toward me--I could tell my chosen at a glance. There is something in the physical form--less in its muscular development than its motion--in the play of the arms and limbs--that proclaims the spirit within. It is that unmistakeable, and yet undefinable essence we term _grace_; which Nature alone can give, and Art cannot acquire. It is a quality of the soul; and not belonging to the body--to the adornment of which it but lends itself. It proclaimed itself in every movement of Mercedes Villa-Senor--in her step, her carriage, the raising of her hand, the serpentine undulation perceptible throughout her whole frame. Every gesture made was a living illustration of Hogarth's line. Grace was not denied to Dolores; though to her given in a lesser degree. There was a sprightliness about her movements that many might have admired; but which in my mind but poorly compared with the grand, queen-like, air that characterised the step of her sister. I soon became aware that they were on their way to the Cathedral--whose matin bells were filling the streets with their clangour. Other intended devotees--most of them women, in shawls and _rebosos_--were hastening across the Piazza Mayor, in the same direction. Dolores alone looked round. Several times she did so--turning again towards the Cathedral with an air of evident dissatisfaction. Her seeing me made not the slightest difference--a stranger accidentally walking the same way. I felt no chagrin at her indifference. I divined the cause of it. I was not "Querido Francisco."