A faint fire flickering on the hearth just revealed the form and face of the Mexican maiden.
Her mantilla lay on the floor beside her, the black hair, thick and straight, hung to the waist, her brilliant, piercing eyes were bent vacantly on the fire, her dark cheek perfectly colorless as clay.
"Who is there to care for Inez now?
Who will smooth my pillow, and close my eyes, and lay me to rest ?" Her desolation of heart conquered; her head sunk upon her bosom, and a deep, bitter groan burst from her lips.

Slowly she rocked herself to and fro in the loneliness of her spirit.
She had not loved her father warmly; there was little congeniality between them, and her hasty rejection of Manuel's suit mutually embittered their intercourse.

For Nevarro, a sort of sisterly feeling was entertained, no warmer affection.

Yet she could love intensely.

A little sister had waked her tenderness--her heart clung to the gentle child, so unlike herself.