water at Juan's head, would have thought, “Good heavens, do all those women, children, and babies belong in that one house!” the Señora's sole thought, as she at that moment went past the gate, was, “Poor things! how few there are left of them! I am afraid old Marda has to work too hard. I must spare Margarita more from the house to help her.” And she sighed deeply, and unconsciously held her rosary nearer to her heart, as she went into the house and entered her son's bedroom. The picture she saw there was one to thrill any mother's heart; and as it met her eye, she paused on the threshold for a second,—only a second, however; and nothing could have astonished Felipe Moreno so much as to have been told that at the very moment when his mother's calm voice was saying to him, “Good morning, my son, I hope you have slept well, and are better,” there was welling up in her heart a passionate ejaculation, “O my glorious son! The saints have sent me in him the face of his father! He is fit for a kingdom!”
The truth is, Felipe Moreno was not fit for a kingdom at all. If he had been, he would not have been so ruled by his mother without ever finding it out. But so far as mere physical beauty goes, there never was a king born, whose face, stature, and bearing would set off a crown or a throne, or any of the things of which the outside of royalty is made up, better than would Felipe Moreno's. And it was true, as the Señora said, whether the saints had anything to do with it or not, that he had the face of his father. So strong a likeness is seldom seen. When Felipe once, on the occasion of a grand celebration and procession, put on the gold-wrought velvet mantle, gayly embroidered short breeches fastened at the knee with red ribbons, and gold-and-silver-trimmed sombrero, which his father had worn twenty-five years before, the Señora
