When the boy became a man, he was taken naturally into Doña Emilia's intimacy, and associated in all her plans. Don Aníbal, delighted at this result, and trusting in the young man, whose good sentiments he had reason for believing he knew, felt relieved from a heavy burden; and when his wife, attacked by one of her fits, attempted one of her hazardous excursions, he saw her start with less terror, as he felt convinced that she had a devoted defender by her side. But a thing happened which neither husband nor wife had foreseen. The two young people, brought up side by side, living constantly together, accustomed to interchange their most secret thoughts and ideas, passed by an imperceptible incline, without either perceiving or suspecting it, from friendship to love. Love in these two young, ignorant hearts, which were pure from any wrong sentiment, must necessarily be deep, irresistible, and produce the effect of a thunderbolt. This is what occurred: the two young people, instead of trying to resist the new feeling which was germinating in their hearts and growing so rapidly, yielded to it with that simple confidence which ignorance alone can give, and which converts love into a divine sentiment. Long before they had made a mutual avowal, they understood each other by a glance, and knew that they were henceforth attached to each other. One day Doña Diana approached Melchior, who, with his shoulder leant against a sumach, was listlessly watching a flight of wild pigeons passing over his head. The young man was so absorbed in thought that he did not hear the maiden's light step, as her dainty feet made the sand of the walk she was following creak. It was only when her hand was laid on his shoulder that, recalled to earth from heaven, he started as if he had received an electric shock, turned suddenly, and fixed his eyes on Doña Diana. The young lady smiled. "Were you dreaming?" she asked. "Yes," he replied with a sigh; "I was dreaming, Niña." She mechanically raised her eyes to the sky. "Of those birds, doubtless? Did they bring you a hope or a regret?" Melchior shook his head. "Neither one nor the other," he said sorrowfully. "I have no regrets, and my sole hope is here." The young lady looked down with a blush. There was a silence for some minutes, filled with ineffable melody for these young hearts; the lad was the first to speak. "Alas!" he said, in a low and timid voice, "Regrets are hot made for me; what am I, save a lost child, whose colour is not even decided? Can I regret a family I do not know?" "Yes, that is true," she answered, with a roguish smile; "but you have a hope." "A mad hope, an insensate dream, which the reawakening of reason will utterly dispel," he said with feverish animation. "You are deceived or wish to deceive me," she said, with some sternness in her voice; "that is not right, Melchior." "Señorita--" he stammered.