"Take them away, do not mention the hated gems to me," she said, with a shudder. So the duenna kept them.
Day by day Lenore sat by the dear, sad mother, who only smiled when she looked upon the beautiful face of her child, who grew more lovely with every rising sun, at least so thought the young hidalgo. In their sorrow he never left them.
All that a devoted son could be, he was to the mother, and to Lenore he was every thing.
Very often the duenna sat alone in the garden-arbor, plying her distaff, for Lenore seldom came to her. Often she would steal a glance at the beautiful pearls, saying: "I am surely the third, why am I not rich and fair?"
"Don Carlos is dead, the hidalgo was the second, I must be the third.
"I have the pearls, the rest will follow;" then the distaff would fall from her hands, and she would dream curious day-dreams, and build castles of her own in air.
One evening, just one year after their deep grief fell upon them, the young hidalgo and Lenore persuaded the mother to walk with them on the beach.
The time had been very long and lonely to her since the sorrow-freighted ship came in, and as she sat upon a moss-covered stone, and saw the white sails of a gallant ship, winging its way to the shore, the tears filled her eyes, and, that her sorrow might not sadden the hopeful young hearts of her children (as she loved to call them), she bowed her head upon her hands, that they might not notice the grief she could not restrain, when suddenly a joyous shout from Lenore sent a warm thrill through her heart, and the blood danced through her veins with renewed life.