The furniture of this apartment was simple, but comfortable and in good taste. The curtains and the covering of the easy-chairs, the sofas and the arm-chairs, were of a flowered cotton fabric. On a mahogany table were writing materials and papers, and in a book-case, also of mahogany, were many books of devotion and history. The walls were adorned with pictures—engravings on religious subjects, but with this particularity in their selection, unheard-of, extraordinary, almost incredible in an Andalusian village, that, instead of being bad French lithographs, they were engravings in the best style of Spanish art, as the Spasimo di Sicilia, of Rafael; the St. Ildefonso and the Virgin, the Conception, the St. Bernard, and the two Lunettes of Murillo.
On an antique oak table, supported by fluted columns, was a small writing-desk, or escritoire, inlaid with shell, mother-of-pearl, ivory, and brass, and containing a great many little drawers, in which Pepita kept bills and other papers. On this table were also two porcelain vases filled with flowers; and, finally, hanging against the walls, were several flower-pots of Seville Carthusian ware, containing ivy, geranium, and other plants, and three gilded cages, in which were canaries and larks.
This apartment was the retreat of Pepita, where no one entered during the daytime except the doctor and the reverend vicar, and, in the evening, only the overseer to settle accounts. This apartment was called the library, and served the purpose of one.
Pepita was seated, half reclining, on a sofa, before which stood a small table with some books upon it.
She had just risen, and was attired in a light summer wrapper. Her blonde hair, not yet arranged, looked even more beautiful in its disorder. Her countenance, somewhat pale, and, although it still preserved its fresh and youthful aspect, showing dark circles under the eyes, looked more beautiful than ever under the influence of the malady, that robbed it of color.
Pepita showed signs of impatience; she was waiting for some one.
At last the person she was awaiting, who proved to be the reverend vicar, arrived, and entered without announcement.
After the usual salutations the reverend vicar settled himself comfortably in an easy-chair, and the conversation thus began:
"I am very glad, my child, that you sent for me; but, even without your doing so, I was just coming to see you. How pale you are! What is it that ails you? Have you something of importance to tell me?"
Pepita began her answer to this series of affectionate inquiries with a deep sigh; she then said: