“Sister,” said Ruez, to Isabella, a few days after her marriage with the lieutenant-governor, “are you going to have Lorenzo Bezan cashiered?  Are you going to complain of him, as you promised me you should do?”

“You love to torment me, Ruez,” said the blooming bride, with affected petulence.

“That is not answering my question,” continued her brother.

“If you don’t have a care, I’ll complain of you, Ruez, for that piece of business in the guardhouse!”

“I’ve no fear about that now, since it has resulted so well.”

“That’s true; but it is really perplexing to have you always right.  I do declare, Ruez, I wish you would do something that will really vex me so that I can have a good quarrel with you.”

“No you don’t, sister.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Tut! tut!” said Lorenzo Bezan, entering at that moment; “I thought I heard a pistol discharge.”

“Only a kiss, general,” said Ruez, pleasantly.  And this was a sample of the joy and domestic peace of Don Gonzales’s family.

In Isabella’s ignorance of the tender and truthful promptings of her own bosom, we have shown you the heart’s secret, and in the vicissitudes that attended the career of Lorenzo Bezan, the fortunes of A soldier.

The end.