“Pedro, Pedro, it is not thus we should love our children,” replied Maria. “To love them is to do above all that which will benefit them.”
“So let it be!” replied the fisherman, rising with resolution; “I place her in your hands, I confide her to this doctor’s care, and commend her to the divine goodness.”
With difficulty could he pronounce these last words, which flowed rapidly, as if he feared to recall his determination; and he went to harness his ass.
“Don Frederico,” asked Maria, when they were alone with the invalid, who remained drowsy, “is it not true, that, with God’s help, we will cure her?”
“I hope so,” replied Stein; “I cannot tell you how much this poor father interests me.”
Maria made a package of the linen which the fisherman had taken out of the box, and Pedro came back leading the ass by the bridle. They placed the invalid on the saddle: the young girl, enfeebled by the fever, opposed no resistance. Before Maria had mounted Golondrina, who appeared quite content to return in company with Urca (name given to a great sea-fish, and which was that of Pedro’s ass), the fisherman took Maria aside, and said to her, in trying to slip some pieces of gold in her hand:
“This is all I could save from my shipwreck, take it, and give it to the doctor, for all I have is for him who can give me back my daughter.”
“Keep your gold,” replied Maria, “and know, in the first place, it is God who has conducted the doctor hither; in the second place—it is I.”
Maria pronounced these last words with a light tinge of vanity.
They commenced their journey.