gentle, and docile, trotted on the road, the head lowered, ears depressed, without making a single rough movement, except when he encountered a thistle in proximity with his nostrils.
When they were arrived, Stein was astonished to find, in the middle of this arid country, of a nature so dry and so sterile, a village so leafy and so coquettish.
The sea had formed, between two great rocks, a little circular creek, and surrounded by a coast of the finest sand, which appeared like a plateau of crystal placed on a table of gold. Several rocks showed themselves timidly, as if they wished to repose themselves, and be seated on the tranquil shore. At one of them was made fast a fisherman’s bark; balancing herself at the will of the waves, she seemed as impatient as a horse reined in.
On one side of the rocks was elevated the fort of San Cristobal, crowned by the peaks of wild figs, like the head of an old Druid adorned with green oak-leaves.
The fisherman had constructed his cabin with the wrecked remains of his vessel, which the sea had thrown on the coast; he had based all against the rocks, which formed, in some sort, three stories of the habitation. The roof was horizontal, and covered with aquatica, the first layer of which, rotted by the rains, had given growth to a great quantity of herbs and of flowers; so that in the autumn, when the dryness disappeared with the heat of summer, the cabin appeared covered as with a delicious garden.
When the persons just arrived entered the cabin, they found the fisherman sad and cast down, seated near the fire, opposite to his daughter; who, her hair in disorder, and falling down on both sides of her pale face, bent up and shivering, her emaciated limbs enveloped in a rag of brown flannel. She seemed to be not more than thirteen years of age. The invalid turned, with an expression of but little kindliness, her large, black, and sullen eyes upon the persons who entered, and instantly sank down anew in the corner of the chimney.
“Pedro,” said Maria, “you forget your friends, but they do not forget you. Will you tell me why the good God has given you a mouth? Could you not have let me known of the illness of the little girl? If you had let me known of it sooner, I had sooner come with this gentleman, who is such a doctor as is seldom seen, and who in no time will cure your daughter.”
Pedro Santalo rose brusquely, and advanced to Stein; he would speak to him, but he was so overcome with emotion that he could not articulate a single word, and he covered his face with his hands. He was a man already advanced in life, his aspect sufficiently rude, and his form colossal. His countenance, bronzed by the sun, was crowned by a gray head of hair, thick and uncombed; his breast, red as that of an Ohio Indian, was also covered with hair.
“Come, Pedro!” said Maria, from whose eyes the tears began to flow at the sight of the poor father’s despair; “a man like you, big as a church, a man they believe ready to devour infants uncooked, to be discouraged thus without reason! Come! I see here nothing but what appears solid.”
“Good mother Maria,” replied the fisherman, in a feeble voice, “I count, with this one, five children in their tombs.”
“My God! and why thus lose courage? Remember the saint whose name you bear, and who threw himself into the sea when he had lost the faith which sustained him. I tell you that, with the grace of God, Don Frederico will cure the child in as little time as you could call on Jesus.”
Pedro sadly shook his head.
“How obstinate are these Catalans!” said Maria, with a little anger; and passing before the fisherman, she approached the invalid: “Come, Marisalada, come; rise up, daughter, that this gentleman may examine you.”
Marisalada did not stir.
“Come, my daughter,” repeated the good woman; “you will see that he will cure you as by enchantment.” At these words, she took the girl by the arm, and wished to raise her up.
“I have no desire,” said the invalid, rudely disengaging herself from the hand which held her.
“The daughter is as sweet as the father; ‘he who inherits steals not,’ ” murmured Momo, who appeared at the door.
“It is her illness that renders her impatient,” added the father, to exculpate his child.
Marisalada had an access of coughing. The fisherman wrung his hands with grief.
“A fresh cold,” said Maria; “come, come, it is not a very extraordinary thing. But then he will consent to what this child does; the cold she takes, running, with naked feet and legs, on the rocks and on the ice.”
“She would do it,” replied Pedro.
“And why not give her healthy food – good soups, milk, eggs? But no, she eats only fish.”
“She does not wish them,” replied the father, with dejection.
“She dies from negligence,” suggested Momo, who, with arms crossed, was posted against the door-post.
“Will you put your tongue in your pocket!” said his grandma to him. She returned towards Stein:
“Don Frederico, try and examine our invalid, as she will not move, for she will let herself die rather than make a movement.”
Stein commenced by asking of the father some details of the illness of his daughter. He then approached the young girl who was drowsy, he remarked that the lungs were too compressed in their right cavity, and were irritated by the oppression. The case was grave, the invalid was feeble, from want of proper food; the cough was hard and dry, the fever constant; the consumption indeed would not allow it to pause.
“Has she always had a taste for singing?” demanded the old woman during the examination.
“She would sing crucified, like the bald mice,” said Momo, turning away his head, that the wind would carry his hard speech, and that his grandma could not hear him.
“The first thing to do,” said Stein, “is to forbid this girl to expose herself to the rigors of the season.”
“Do you hear, my child?” said the father with anxiety.
“She must,” continued Stein, “wear shoes and dress warm.”
“If she will not?” cried the fisherman, rising suddenly, and opening a box of cedar, from whence he took numerous objects of toilet.
“Nothing is wanting: all that I have and all that I can amass are hers. Maria! my daughter! you will put on this clothing! Do this for the love of heaven! – Mariquita, you see it is what the doctor orders.”
Marisalada, who was aroused by the noise made by her father, cast an irritated look on Stein, and said to him in a sharp voice:
“Who governs me?”
“And say that they do not give this government to me, by means of a good branch of wild olive!” murmured Momo.
“She must have,” continued Stein, “good nourishment, and substantial soups.”
Maria made an expressive gesture of approbation at the same time.
“She should be nourished with milk diet, and chickens, and fresh eggs.”
“Did I not tell you so!” interrupted the old woman, exchanging a look with Pedro: “Don Frederico is the best doctor in the world.”
“Take care that she does not sing,” remarked Stein.
“Am I never to listen to her again?” cried poor Pedro with grief.
“See, then, what a misfortune!” replied Maria. “Let her be cured, and then she can sing night and day, like the ticking of a watch. But I think it will be best to have her taken to me, for there is no one to nurse her, nor any one who knows like me how to make good soup for her.”
“I can prove that,” said Stein, smiling, “and I assure you one might set before a king a soup prepared by my good nurse.”
Maria never felt more happy.
“Thus, Pedro, it is useless talking of it; I will take her home.”
“Remain without her! no, no, it is impossible.”
“Pedro,