Laguna de Bay, surrounded by mountains, sleeps tranquilly in the stillness of the elements, as if it had not joined the chorus of the tempest on the night before. As first rays of dawn appear in the eastern sky and awaken the phosphorescent myriads in the water, long, grey shadows appear in the dim distance, almost on the border of the horizon. They are shadows of fishermen’s boats at work drawing in the nets.  
Two men, dressed in deep mourning, from a lofty height contemplate the scene in silence. One is Ibarra, and the other is a young, meek-looking man with a melancholy countenance.
 
“Here is the place!” said the latter. “Here is where your father’s body was thrown into the water! The grave-digger brought Lieutenant Guevara and me here and pointed out the spot.”
 
Ibarra, with emotion, warmly grasped the young man’s hand.
 
“You need not thank me!” replied the latter. “I owed your father for many favors he did me. The only thing I could ever do for him was to accompany his body to the grave. I had come to the town without knowing anybody, without any recommendations, without a reputation, without money, just as I am now. Your father protected me, procured a house for me, helped secure whatever was needed to advance education; he used to come to the school and distribute pennies among the poor and diligent pupils; he provided them with books and papers. But that, like all good things, did not last long.”
 
Ibarra took off his hat and seemed to pray for a short time. Then he turned to his companion and said: “Did [52]you tell me that my father used to help the poor children? How is it now?”
 
“Oh, now they do the best they can.”
 
“And don’t they come to school regularly?”
 
“No, for their shirts are ragged and they are ashamed.”
 
Ibarra kept silent for a few moments.
 
“How many pupils have you now?” he asked, with a certain interest.
 
“There are more than two hundred on the register, but only twenty-five in the class.”
 
“How does that happen?”
 
The school teacher sadly smiled.
 
“It is a long and tedious story,” said he.
 
“Don’t think that I am asking out of vain curiosity,” replied Ibarra, looking seriously at the distant horizon. “I have been meditating a great deal on the matter, and I believe that it is far better to try to carry out the ideas of my father than to try to avenge him. His tomb is sacred Nature; and his enemies were the people and the priest. I can forgive the people for their ignorance, and as to the priest, I will pardon his character because I wish to respect the religion which he represents. I wish to be inspired with the spirit of the one who gave me life, and, that I may lend my help, I wish to know what are the obstacles here in the way of education.”
 
“The country will bless your memory, Se?or, if you can carry out the beautiful and noble ideas of your dead father,” said the school teacher. “You wish to know what the obstacles are? Very well. We are now in such circumstances that unless something powerful intervenes, there will never be any education here. First, because there is no incentive or stimulus to the children, and, secondly, even when there is an incentive, lack of means and many prejudices kill it. They say that the son of a German peasant studies eight years in the town school. Who would want to spend half of that time in our schools, when the benefits to be derived are so small? Here the children read, and commit to memory verses and at times entire books in Spanish, but all without understanding a single word. What good can [53]the sons of our farmers get out of the school so long as this is the case?”
 
“And you see the evil; have you not thought out a remedy?”
 
“Ah, poor me!” replied the teacher, shaking his head, “a poor teacher cannot alone fight against prejudices, against existing influences. Above all, I would need to have a school house, so that I would not, as I do now, have to teach from the priest’s carriage, under the convent. There, when the children want to read aloud, they naturally disturb the Father, who at times comes down and very nervous, especially when he has his attacks, finds fault with the children and insults me. You know very well that under such conditions no one can do any teaching. The child does not respect the teacher from that moment when he sees him mistreated by some one else without maintaining his rights. The teacher, if he is to be listened to, or if his authority is not to be doubted, needs prestige, a good name, moral strength, and a certain amount of freedom. If you will allow me, I will give you an illustration. I wished to introduce some reforms and they laughed at me. In order to remedy the evil that I spoke of a moment ago, I tried to teach the children Spanish, because, not only does the Government order it, but because it will be a great advantage for them to know the language. I employed the simplest method, used simple phrases and nouns without making use of hard rules, with the expectation of teaching them the grammar as soon as they had learned the language. At the end of several weeks, almost all the smarter ones in the school understood me and were able to compose phrases in Castellano.”
 
The teacher stopped and seemed to be in doubt. Then, as if he had made up his mind, he began again.
 
“I ought not to be ashamed of the history of my grievances. If any one had been in my place, he would have had the same story to tell. As I was saying, I began well. Several days later the priest, who was then Father Dámaso, sent the sacristan mayor to tell me that he wanted to see me. As I knew his character and was afraid to make him wait for me, I went up immediately, [54]saluted him and said good morning to him in Spanish. As was customary, when I saluted............