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BY JOHN HOWARD PAYNE.

The home of Lopez was only a cottage; but it
was situated beneath the beautiful sky of Andalusia,
in the little bishopric of Jaen, at the flowery
foot of Sierra Morena. His daughter, Inesilla, his
only child—his gentle, his lovely, his darling Inesilla—
dwelt with him there. He regretted riches
only on one account. His loss of them must interrupt
the education of his daughter.

“Inesilla,” said he to her, “I have often rendered
services; but no one comes to render services to
me. There is no such thing in the world as generosity.”

“The numbers of the ungrateful would seem to
prove the contrary,” replied Inesilla. “Ingratitude
would be less common, if we knew how to appropriate
our benefactions; but the rich and powerful,
hemmed in as they are by mercenaries, parasites,
and adventurers, are intercepted by this mob of
slaves, from conveying to virtuous indigence the
noble kindness which may relieve without degrading.
We should know the characters of those
whom we oblige, before we do them services. We

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listen to our hearts, and are deceived. You have
yourself done this, and more than once.”

“I own it. I own it. I was in the wrong.”

The conversation was interrupted by a clap of
thunder. A rapid storm darkened the horizon.
Lopez thought no more of the ungrateful. All resolutions
of future caution vanished. He flew to
fling open the large gate of his cottage yard, that
the wayfarer might be sheltered beneath his cartshed
from the tempest, whose roar was now redoubled
by the mountain echoes.

A brilliant carriage, drawn by six mules, at once
drove in. Don Fernando descended from it; had
his servants and his mules placed under the shed,
and presented himself at the door of the cottage of
Lopez. Inesilla opened it, and Don Fernando
paused with wonder, to meet beneath the lowly
thatch a form so sylph-like and a face so refined.
The courtly bearing of Lopez seemed to create no
less surprise; his astonishment, the earnestness of
his questions, the interest he seemed to take in every
thing relating to the old man, stimulated Lopez
to tell the story of his misfortunes, ending with the
moral which his daughter had deduced from them.

Fernando heard him with intense attention.

“By the sword of the cid!” cried he, “that
daughter of thine is a philosopher! `We should
know the character of those whom we oblige, before
we do them services;' and I bless the storm,”
added he, tears starting to his eyes, “which has acquainted
me with thee and thine; but we should

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also bear in mind another truth of which thy daughter's
philosophy seems not to be aware. We should
also know the characters of those by whom we are
obliged, before we let them do us services.”

The words of Don Fernando sank deep into the
heart of Lopez. He felt he had at last found one
with whom he wished he could exchange situations,
merely that he could render so worthy a man
a service.

Don Fernando seemed to be animated with a similar
yearning towards poor Lopez.

“But, Lopez,” added he, “it is not from words
that characters are to be learned. We must look
to actions. From these I would teach you mine.
Lopez, I am rich, and I am not heartless. You
have bestowed on me the only kindness in your
power. Do not be offended. I must not be numbered
among the ungrateful. Your fortune must
be restored. Deign, till we can bring that about,
to let me be your banker.”

“There is nothing I have to wish for, on my own
account,” said Lopez; “but my dear girl there,
though still in the bloom of early youth, has for a
long while been interrupted in her education. Poor
darling, she has no associates of her own age and
sex about her—no one to supply the place of a mother.
The warmest affection of a father never can
make up for wants like these.”

“I have an aunt,” replied Fernando, “who inhabits
Cazorla with her two daughters, both much
about the age of your Inesilla. In this family are

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blended inexhaustible amiableness, enlightened religion,
deep and varied acquirements. Deprived of
the gifts of fortune, they have nothing to live on
but a moderate pension, of which their virtues, the
duties of humanity, and the claims of relationship,
concur in rendering it imperative on me to force
their acceptance. Cazorla is situated not far hence;
just on the skirts of the Vega—a site of surpassing
beauty. Go, yourself, in my name. Find my
noble relation. Confide to her your Inesilla.”

Lopez, scarcely hearing him out, caught his
hands, and bathed them with tears of gratitude.

It was not long before Inesilla was conducted, by
her father, to the aunt of Fernando, from whom, and
from her daughters, she received a most affectionate
welcome; while Lopez, disabused of his prejudices
against the world, regained his cottage, satisfied
with himself and others, and silently and seriously
resolving never more to think slightingly of
human nature, and go often and see his daughter.

One day he was pondering on his recollections of
Fernando, on his delicate liberality, and on his profound
proverb, when, casting his eyes unconsciously
around, they rested upon a lowly tree, where a
poor little orphan-dove, left alone ere the down had
enough thickened to shield it from the evening
chill, forsaken, as it was, by all nature, filled its forlorn
nest with feeble wailings. At that moment,
from the mighty summit of the Sierra Morena, a
bird of prey—(it was a vulture!)—outspreading his
immense wings—pointed his flight downwards

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toward the lamenting dove, and for some time hung
hovering above the tree which held her cradle. Lopez
was instantly on the alert for means to rescue
the helpless little victim, when he thought he could
perceive that at the sight of the vulture, the infant
dove ceased her moan, fluttered joyously, and
stretched towards him her open beak. In truth,
he really beheld, ere long, the terrible bird, gently
descending, charged with a precious booty, toward
his baby protégée, and lavishing on her the choicest
nutriment, with a devotedness unknown to vulgar
vultures.

“Most wonderful!” cried the good Lopez. “How
unjust I was! How blind! I refused to believe in
beneficence. I find it even among vultures!”

Lopez could not grow weary of this touching
sight. Day after day he returned to watch it. It
opened to him sources of exquisite and inexhaustible
meditation. He was enraptured to see innocence
strengthened under the wing of power—the weak
succored by the strong; and the transition from the
nest of the dove to his gentle Inesilla, in happiness
at Cazorla, protected by one of the rich and powerful,
was so natural, that he returned home, blessing
Don Fernando and the vulture.

Already had the light down on the little dove
deepened into silvery feathers; already, from branch
to branch, had she essayed her timid flight upon
her native tree; already could her beak, hardened
and sharpened, grasp its nourishment with ease.

One day the vulture appeared with the accustomed
provender. He eyed his adopted intently.

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The dove that day looked peculiarly innocent and
beautiful. Her form was round and full. Her air
delightfully engaging. The vulture paused. He
seemed for a moment to exult that he had reared a
creature so fair. On a sudden he pounced into the
nest. In an instant the dove was devoured.

Lopez witnessed this: he stood amazed and puzzled,
like Gargantua, on the death of his wife Badebec.

“Great Powers!” exclaimed Lopez, “what do I
behold!”

The good man was surprised that a vulture
should have eaten a dove, when only the reverse
would have been the wonder.

The former association in his mind between his
daughter and the dove rushed back upon him. He
was almost mad.

“My Inesilla, my dove,” shrieked he to himself,
“is also under the protection of a vulture—a great
lord—a man of prey—hence! hence!”

He ran. He flew. He repeated to himself a
hundred times upon the way—

“We should know the character of those by
whom we are obliged, before we let them do us services!”

And with this upon his lip he arrived, breathless,
at Cazorla. He darted to the retreat where he
had left his daughter—

—Merciful Providence!—

Reader! I see you are almost as much pleased
as Inesilla was, that Lopez saved his daughter.