Conchita, come hither!" A young girl is seen stepping into the chamber.

A glance would tell her to be the maid, if the overheard conversation had not already declared it.

A little brown-skinned damsel, scarce five feet in height, with raven hair hanging in double plait down her back, and black eyes that sparkle like those of a basilisk.
Provident Conchila has brought the bottle and glass with her, and a portion of the famed grape juice of El Paso is administered to the invalid.
"How good and kind you've all been!" he says, as his head once more settles down upon the pillow.

"And you especially, senorita.

If I mistake not, I'm indebted to you for the saving of my life." "Do not speak of that," she rejoins; "I've shown you no kindness in particular.