He used to visit the classes and distribute pictures among the poor but studious children, as well as provide them with books and paper.

But this, like all good things, lasted only a little while." Ibarra took off his hat and seemed to be praying for a time.

Then he turned to his companion: "Did you say that my father helped the poor children?
And now ?" "Now they get along as well as possible and write when they can," answered the youth.
"What is the reason ?" "The reason lies in their torn camisas and their downcast eyes." "How many pupils have you now ?" asked Ibarra with interest, after a pause.
"More than two hundred on the roll but only about twenty-five in actual attendance." "How does that happen ?" The schoolmaster smiled sadly as he answered, "To tell you the reasons would make a long and tiresome story." "Don't attribute my question to idle curiosity," replied Ibarra gravely, while he stared at the distant horizon.

"I've thought better of it and believe that to carry out my father's ideas will be more fitting than to weep for him, and far better than to revenge him.

Sacred nature has become his grave, and his enemies were the people and a priest.