"What do you want to be?" Labarta asked his godson. His mother's supplicating glance seemed desperately to implore the little fellow: "Say Archbishop, my king." For the good se ora, her son could not make his d but in any other way than in a church career. The notary always used to speak very positively from his own viewpoint, without consulting the interested party. He would be an eminent jurisconsult; thousands of dollars were going to roll toward him as though they were pennies; he was going to figure in university solemnities in a cloak of crimson satin and an academic cap announcing from its multiple sides the tasseled glory of the doctorate. The students in his lecture-room would listen to him most respectfully. Who knew what the government of his country might not have in store for him. . . Ulysses interrupted these images of future grandeur: "I want to be a captain." The poet approved. He felt the unreflective enthusiasm which all pacific and sedentary beings have for the plume and the sword. At the mere sight of a uniform his soul always thrilled with the amorous tenderness of a child's nurse when she finds herself courted by a soldier. "Fine " said Labarta. "Captain of what. . . ? Of artillery. . . ? Of the staff. . . ?" A pause. "No; captain of a ship." Don Esteban looked up at the roof, raising his hands in horror. He well knew who was guilty of this ridiculous idea, the one who had put such absurd longings in his son's head