"Tell me, why are you called Nela? What does it mean?"
The child shrugged her shoulders, and after a pause, she said:
"My mother's name was María Canela, and so she was called Nela; they say it is a dog's name. My name is María."
"Mariquita."
"María Nela they call me, or sometimes Canela's girl, and some say Marianela, and some merely Nela."
"And your master, is he fond of you?"
"Yes, Señor; he is very good to me. He says he sees with my eyes, for I take him everywhere, and tell him what everything is like."
"Everything that he cannot see?" The stranger seemed much interested in this conversation.
"Yes—I tell him everything. He asks me what a star is like, and I tell him all about it in such a way that it is the same to him as if he could see it. I explain it all—what the planets are like, and the clouds, and the sky, and the water, and the lightning, the weather-cocks, the butterflies, the mists, the snails, and the shapes and faces of men and animals. I tell him what is ugly and what is pretty, and so he gets to understand everything."