“Do you need anything else?”
“Do you know—do you know that yesterday was Saturday and that to-day is Sunday?”
“As a general thing Sunday does follow Saturday,” answered Artegui, with amiable badinage.
“You don’t understand me.”
“Explain yourself, then. What do you wish?”
“What should I wish but to go to mass like all the rest of the world?”
“Ah!” exclaimed Artegui. Then he added: “True. And you wish——”
“That you should accompany me. I am not going to mass alone, I suppose?”
Artegui smiled again, and the young girl observed how well a smile became that countenance, generally so emotionless and somber. It was like the dawn when it tints the gray mountains with rose-color; like a sunbeam piercing the mists on a cloudy clay. The eyes, the pallid and hollow cheeks kindled; youth was renewed in that countenance faded by mysterious sorrows, and darkened by perpetual clouds.
“You should always smile, Don Ignacio,” exclaimed Lucía. “Although,” she added reflectively, “the other way you look more like yourself.”