"There now, leave me alone a few minutes; I want to read."
"You naughty, naughty boy!" she would retort with innocent vexation. "You are very naughty to send me away!"
Miguel would relent, and pull her back by the hand.
After dinner they used to spend another little while together, and then he would go to the café, and from there to his editorial rooms, returning at twelve or one. His wife used to try to wait for him, either by reading a book or by taking a nap. Saturdays they always went to the theatre, for La Independencia was not published on Sundays, and so there was one day in the seven when he was not driven with work.
One evening, as she was coming down stairs, Maximina, who was occupied in putting on her gloves, tripped and fell, rolling down several steps.
"Oh! my wife!" cried Miguel, hastening to her aid.
The young woman got up with a smile, though she, was flushed with alarm. She had not suffered any harm, but the heart-rending cry uttered by Miguel had gone to the very depths of her soul.
Then, also for the first time, Miguel realized how this gentle creature had taken possession of his heart.
She had been greatly troubled at a slight ailment from which her husband suffered during the early months of their marriage: severe rheumatic pains kept him housed for several days; he grew pale and thin, and, worse than all, was in a very unhappy frame of mind, for he was not a man to endure adversities patiently.
Maximina was deeply troubled, and do the best she could, it was impossible for her to hide her grief. She sat all day long beside the bed, and did not take her eyes from her husband; from time to time, almost overcome with grief, and making great efforts to control herself, she would say:—