"Well, my mother is satisfied, perhaps.
She has driven him away. At least, I shall not have to go to the
convent."
"Thou art so cold, my little one," said Aunt Anastacia, disapprovingly.
"Thou art but fifteen years, and yet thou throwest aside a lover as if
he were an old reboso. Madre de Dios! In your place I should have wept
and beaten the air. But perhaps that is the reason all the young men are
wild for thee. Not but that I had many lovers--"
"It is too bad thou didst not marry one," interrupted Eulogia,
maliciously. "Perhaps thou wouldst"--and she picked up her book--"if
thou hadst read the Senor Dumas."
"Thou heartless baby!" cried her indignant aunt, "when I love thee so,
and bring thy notes at the risk of my life, for thou knowest that thy
mother would pull the hair from my head. Thou little brat! to say I
could not marry, when I had twenty--"
Eulogia jumped up and pecked her on the chin like a bird. "Twenty-five,
my old mountain. I only joked with thee. Thou didst not marry because
thou hadst more sense than to trot about after a man.
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