When she went to the river to wash--" She was going to say "wash the clothes," but she stopped in time and said instead, "wash her spaniel and her pony"-- her face was flushed again with shame, for to lie about one's mother is a sickening thing, and her mother never had a spaniel or a pony--"the women on the shore wringing their clothes, used to beg her to sing.

To the hum of the river she would make the music which they loved--" "La Manola and such ?" interjected Jean Jacques eagerly.

"That's a fine song as you sing it." "Not La Manola, but others of a different sort--The Love of Isabella, The Flight of Bobadil, Saragosse, My Little Banderillero, and so on, and all so sweet that the women used to cry.

Always, always she was singing till the time when my father became a rebel.

Then she used to cry too; and she would sing no more; and when my father was put against a wall to be shot, and fell in the dust when the rifles rang out, she came at the moment, and seeing him lying there, she threw up her hands, and fell down beside him dead--" "The poor little senora, dead too--" "Not dead too--that was the pity of it.