"A number of years later, Trevillo came back to the mother, carrying a little boy. 'There, mother,' he said, as he held the boy for her to take, 'we have come back to you without Marie. She and the other baby were buried a few days ago, and we cannot bear to live without her down there. If you don't mind, we will stay here with you.'
"It brought both happiness and sorrow to the mother. Rico was four years old and extremely lovable and good. He was a comfort to her and her last great pleasure, for she died a year later. People advised Trevillo to get the aunt to keep house for him and the boy, and thus they have lived ever since."
"So that is their story!" remarked the teacher, when she had finished speaking. "I never could imagine how it came about. It is possible that some relative of Trevillo's may come to take the child."
"Relatives!" said the grandmother, scornfully. "The aunt is a relative, and what does he get from her? Few enough kind words, I am sure."
The teacher rose stiffly. "I am rapidly getting old, my friend," he said. "I feel my strength leaving me to such an extent that I can scarcely get about."
"You should still feel young in comparison with me," said the grandmother, and she wondered at his feebleness as he walked away with slow, unsteady steps.