“Believe not the wicked one, Senora? She is blinded with false knowledge. She is a heretic. I have long suspected it. She has not been to confession for nine months.”
“You wrong me, father. Every day, twice a day, I confess my sins humbly.”
“Chito! You are in outrageous sin. But, then, what else? I hear, indeed, that you read wicked books—even upon your knees you read them.”
“I read my Bible, father.”
“Bring it to me. How could a child like you read the Bible? It is a book for bishops and archbishops, and the Immaculate Father himself. What an arrogance? What an insolence of self-conceit must possess so young a heart? Saints of God! It confounds me.”
The girl stood with burning cheeks gazing at the proud, passionate man, but she did not obey his order.
“Senora, my daughter! See you with your own eyes the fruit of your sin. Will you dare to become a partner in such wickedness?”
“Antonia! Antonia! Go at once and bring here this wicked book. Oh, how can you make so miserable a mother who loves you so much?”
In a few moments Antonia returned with the objectionable book. “My dear grandmother gave it to me,” she said. “Look, mi madre, here is my name in her writing. Is it conceivable that she would give to your Antonia a book that she ought not to read?”
The Senora took it in her hands and turned the leaves very much as a child might turn those of a book in an unknown tongue, in which there were no illustrations nor anything that looked the least interesting. It was a pretty volume of moderate size, bound in purple morocco, and fastened with gilt clasps.