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It was clothed in linen, finer than rancheros use even in their gala attire, and the red flannel with white spots, called bayeta, was of the softest to be procured; but beyond this there was nothing to indicate the class to which the child belonged. Upon a slip of paper pinned to its bosom was written the name Maria Dolores (what more natural than that such a child should bear the name, and be placed under the protection of the Mother of Sorrows?), and upon the reverse was “Señora Doña Isabel Garcia.” Was this to commend the waif to the care or attention of that powerful lady? Pedro rather chose to think it a warning against her. “What! place the bird before the hawk?” With a grim smile he thrust the paper into his bosom. Doña Isabel was he knew not where,—later would be time enough to think of her; meanwhile, here were all the women and children, all the old men, and halt and lame of the village, trooping up to see this waif, which in such an unusual manner had been dropped into the gate-keeper’s horny palms.