"I!" said Hermosa, beginning to tremble.
"Yes, you," he replied, threatening her with uplifted finger; "you are concealing something from me."
"Father!" she murmured softly.
"Daughter, a father's eye can pierce to the bottom of the heart of a girl of sixteen. Some extraordinary change has taken place in you these last few days: your thoughts are strangely preoccupied."
"You are right, father," she replied with a good deal of firmness.
"And what are you dreaming about, little girl?" asked Don Pedro, smiling to conceal his anxiety.
"About Don Torribio de Quiroga, father."
"Aha!" replied he, "Because you love him, I suppose?"
Doña Hermosa drew herself up, and assumed a serious expression.
"I!" said she, placing her hand on her bosom, "No! I deceived myself until today. I do not love Don Torribio, and yet I cannot help thinking of him, although I do not know why. Since his return from Europe, a change has come over him for which I cannot account. It seems to me, that he is not the same person who was brought up with me. His look pains, yet fascinates me; his voice raises a feeling of undefinable sorrow. Certainly, the man is handsome; his manners are noble, and his bearing that of a highbred gentleman: yet there is something nameless about him which chills me, and inspires invincible repugnance."