feeble, Alessandro meditated a bold stroke. Each time that he went to Felipe's room to sing or to play, he felt himself oppressed by the air. An hour of it made him uncomfortable. The room was large, and had two windows, and the door was never shut; yet the air seemed to Alessandro stifling.
“I should be as ill as the Señor Felipe, if I had to stay in that room, and a bed is a weakening thing, enough to pull the strongest man down,” said Alessandro to Juan Can one day. “Do you think I should anger them if I asked them to let me bring Señor Felipe out to the veranda and put him on a bed of my making? I'd wager my head I'd put him on his feet in a week.”
“And if you did that, you might ask the Señora for the half of the estate, and get it, lad,” replied Juan, Seeing the hot blood darkening in Alessandro's face at his words, he hastened to add, “Do not be so hot-blooded. I meant not that you would ask any reward for doing it; I was only thinking what joy it would be to the Señora to see Señor Felipe on his feet again. It has often crossed my thoughts that if he did not get up from this sickness the Señora would not be long behind him. It is but for him that she lives. And who would have the estate in that case, I have never been able to find out.”
“Would it not be the Señorita?” asked Alessandro.
Juan Can laughed an ugly laugh. “Ha, ha! Let the Señora hear you say that!” he said. “Faith, it will be little the Señorita gets more than enough for her bread, may be, out of the Moreno estate. Hark ye, Alessandro; if you will not tell, I will tell you the story of the Señorita. You know she is not of the Moreno blood; is no relation of theirs.”
“Yes,” said Alessandro; “Margarita has said to me that the Señorita Ramona was only the foster-child of the Señora Moreno.”
