Andres,  for  so  the  hero  of  my  tale  was  called,  was  one  of
those  men  whose  hearts  abound  with  feeling  for  which  they
have  found  no  outlet,  and  with  love  that  has  no  object  on
which  to  spend  itself.
An  orphan  almost  from  his  birth,  he  was  left  in  the  care
of  relatives.  I  do  not  know  the  details  of  his  childhood ;
I  can  only  say  that  whenever  it  was  mentioned,  his  face
would  cloud  and  he  would  exclaim,  with  a  sigh :  "  That  is
over  now."

We  all  say  the  same,  sadly  recalling  bygone  joys.  But
was  this  the  explanation  of  his  words  ?  I  repeat  that  I  do
not  know ;  but  I  suspect  not.
As  soon  as  he  was  grown,  he  launched  out  into  the  world.
Though  I  would  not  calumniate  it,  the  fact  remains  that  the
world  for  the  poor,  and  especially  for  a  certain  class  of  the
poor,  is  not  a  Paradise  nor  anything  like  it.  Andres  was,
as  the  saying  goes,  one  of  those  people  who  rise,  most  days,
with  nothing  to  look  forward  to  but  twenty-four  hours  more.
Judge  then,  my  readers,  what  would  be  the  state  of  a  spirit
all  idealism,  all  love,  put  to  the  no  less  difficult  than  prosaic
task  of  seeking  our  daily  bread.
