"Tell me," said Golfin. "Do you live in the mines? Are you the child of any of the workmen employed here?"
"They say I have neither father nor mother."
"Poor little girl! and you work in the mines?"
"No, Señor. I am of no use at all," she replied without raising her eyes.
"Well, you are modest, at any rate."
The doctor bent down to look closely at her face; it was small and freckled all over with little mole-like spots. Her forehead was narrow, her nose sharp but not ill-shaped, her eyes black and brilliant, but their light shone but sadly. Her hair, naturally of a golden brown, was dull for want of care, and from exposure to the sun, wind and dust. Her lips were so thin as to be hardly visible, and always wore a smile, but it was like the faint smile of the dead who have died dreaming of Heaven. Nela's mouth was, strictly speaking, ugly, still it deserved a word of praise from the point of view expressed in the line from Polo de Medina: "A mouth is sweet that asks for nothing." [1] In fact, neither in word, look, or smile, did the poor child betray any of the degrading habits of the beggar. Golfin stroked the sad little face, holding it under the chin and almost encircling it with his big fingers.
"Poor little body!" he said. "Providence has not been over-generous to you. Who do you live with?"
"With Señor Centeno, the overseer of the beasts belonging to the mines?"
"You do not seem to have been born in luxury.—Who were your parents?"
"They say my mother sold peppers in the market at Villamojada. She was not married. She had me one All-Saints' day, and then she went to be wet-nurse at Madrid."