The priest came, and remained a few moments alone with the sick woman. Those who were in the adjoining room kept a sad silence. Don Mariano lying on a sofa, with his cheek resting in one hand, shut his eyes and gave evidence of deep dejection. After the priest had finished, Marta, Maria, Ricardo, and Don Maximo returned. Doña Gertrudis's condition grew continually more critical. There began to be noticeable in her a restlessness of bad augury; she turned her head from one side to the other as though she could not find a resting-place, as though she were already searching for the pillow on which she was to repose eternally. Her vacillating hands picked up and dropped the bedclothes incessantly, while her eyes also restlessly rolled in their orbits, fastening, from time to time, on the ceiling of the room; it seemed as though she found no one on whom to rest them. Soon Martita noticed that her hands were cold, and she mentioned the fact aloud, in a simple manner, without appreciating its unfortunate significance. Don Maximo turned away his head to hide his emotion; the priest let his fall on his breast.

A slight hoarseness began to choke the sick woman's throat; the last words were rather breathed than spoken; it was a dry, sharp huskiness constantly growing more pronounced. The confessor hearing it made a sign to Maria, and she quickly took a silver image of Christ hanging on the wall, and put it in her mother's hand, saying:—

"Mamma, think on the Lord.... Think of what the Divine Saviour suffered for us."

"I ... am not ... dying," said the invalid.

"Yes, mamma ... yes ... you are dying," replied the young woman with kindled face, full of fear and anguish, fearing that she was not well prepared. "Repent of the sins that you have committed!... You do repent, and ask forgiveness of God for them, don't you?"

"Yes ... yes," murmured the invalid.

"Repeat the creed with me!" said the confessor, assuming a more solemn tone: "I believe in God the Father Almighty ... maker of heaven ... and earth...."

Doña Gertrudis repeated the priest's words clumsily, and as though she were not heeding what she did. She looked at the ceiling with strange persistence, while the features of her countenance were rapidly changing; a purple circle was drawn around her eyes, and her nostrils became strangely pinched. When the priest was done she again began to address Maria.

"Mamma, leave the vanities of the world.... Think on God.... Consider that you are going to appear very soon in his presence."

"No ... no.... I am not dying."

"Ay, mamma, by the Holy Virgin, I beg you to feel that you are going to die.... Think on your salvation!"

"I am thinking about it ... yes ... I am thinking about it," said the invalid mechanically.

The priest began to read from a book the Commendation of the Soul in Latin. All knelt. Then the dying woman, raising her head a little, asked:—

"Why are you all kneeling?"

"To recommend you to God, mamma," replied Maria.

And getting up and putting her face near her mother's, she continued in a whisper:—

"Say with me, mamma: 'My Jesus....'"

The mother repeated listlessly: "My Jesus."

"By thy most sacred passion."

"By thy most sacred ... passion."

"By the innumerable pains that thou hast suffered."

"By the in ... numerable ... pains."

"That thou hast suffered," repeated Maria.

"That thou hast suffered."

"Pardon thou my offences."

"Pardon thou ... my offences."

"And save my soul."

"That'll do, that'll do!" said the dying woman, pushing her daughter away with her trembling hand. "No, I am not dying.... I am well.... Come here, Martita.... It isn't true ... that I am ... dying ... is it, daughter?"

"Yes, loveliest, yes.... We will go ... wait ... lift me a little.... I am uncomfortable in this position."

Marta helped her to sit up; but as she did so her mother's eyes rested upon her, fixed, motionless, terrible. That look smote the poor girl to the depths of her heart, and uttering a frightful, piercing cry, she let her fall back on the pillow. The Señora de Elorza's head relaxed as though the neck were dislocated, with open mouth and rigid lips; and still from the pillow her great glassy eyes continued to follow her daughter with the same fixed and terrifying gaze.

"Mother of my heart!" cried the girl, instantly throwing her arms around her. "Do not look at me so, for God's sake! Mamita mia, do not look at me so. Ay! do not look at me so. Ay! how you terrify me!... Mamita! mamita!... Ay! O God, what is it?"

Don Mariano, who, on hearing the cry, had hurried into the bedchamber with anxious face, and hair standing on end, tried to draw his daughter from the corpse.

"Come away! my soul's daughter, now you have no longer a mother!"

"Yes, I have her.... Yes ... here she is.... Mamma! Mamita! You are here, are you not?... Answer me!... Speak!... Kiss me, for God's sake, mamita!... Let go of me, papa!... Let go of me!... Now she is going to kiss me.... Wait a moment, for God's sake!... Let go of me, papa darling!... Let her kiss me!"

At last they succeeded in dragging Marta away, and took her to another room. Without intending it at all, they caused her great harm. The unhappy girl had not sufficiently mastered her grief; by taking her away they choked the fountain of her tears, and they did not flow again. Pale, completely altered, with eyes fixed on vacancy, she neither listened to what was said to her, nor was willing to take what was given to calm her. She did nothing else but repeat incessantly, in a low, somewhat hoarse voice:—

"Mamma.... Mamma.... Mamma!"

The priest went to her, and said:—

"My daughter, calm yourself, calm yourself. It is a test which God sends you that you may show your resignation. Instead of rebelling against His will, you ought to thank Him for His remembrance of you, showing that He loves you...."

"Don't say foolish things!" exclaimed the girl, in an angry voice, casting upon him a look of scorn. "Is that a proof of God's love, that he has taken away my mother?... Then that's a fine kind of love!... a fine kind of love ... a fine kind of love!"

Marta kept repeating the expression over and over again for some time, in a tone of irritation. When she had calmed down a little the priest said once more,—

Marta saw that the priest was right; she repented of her anger and hung her head, murmuring,—

"Oh, my sister is a saint!"

"You also can be one, my daughter. The road to perfection is open to all who wish to follow it...."

The girl received the counsels of the priest and of the others who were with him, but did not answer a word. She continued in the same way, not moving a finger, her face pale and distorted, and her eyes fixed. Her indifference began to cause them anxiety, and they told her father. The instant Don Mariano entered the room, she felt a shock, and suddenly jumping up she threw herself into his arms sobbing bitterly. She was saved.

The friends of the family, by dint of strong pressure, made Don Mariano and Martita go and rest for a few minutes, while the proper arrangements were made for laying out the body and for the funeral. Maria remained praying in her mother's room. The pale rays of the dawn found her still on her knees, with her face turned to heaven. The wax tapers which she herself had taken care to place around the deathbed were burning funereally, their crude yellow beams struggling with the languid light pouring into the room. No one dared to call her from her devout meditations; those who penetrated into the dressing-room and saw her in that attitude, whispered a few words of surprise, and retired silently with emotion and admiration.

Don Mariano suspected the motive of the call. They wanted to distract their attention, so that they might not notice the noise made by the men in carrying the body from the house. And, in fact, a group of ladies and a few gentlemen endeavored, by repeated entreaties, to persuade them to go to more retired apartments; but their efforts, as far as Don Mariano was concerned, were in vain; he strenuously urged his friends, in a tone which gave no chance for reply, to leave him alone as they had done, but to take Martita with them.

A melancholy, ominous noise, heard through the walls of his room, caused him to raise his head, and fix his eyes on space. Yes, there could be no doubt; they were carrying her away, carrying her away. Don Mariano flung himself, face down, on the sofa, and hid his face in the cushions to choke his sobs.

"My wife! wife of my heart!... They are carrying you away ... carrying you away forever!... Ay! how terrible!"

He let the curtain drop and once more flung himself on the sofa, muttering incoherent words. He knew not how long he remained thus. The light was fading, leaving the room in shadow, and everything was silent.... Everything except his thoughts, which spoke to him ceaselessly, and the sobs which broke from his breast.

And thus he remained a long time, a long time. At last he perceived that the door of his room was softly opening; he turned his head and saw his daughter Maria. She came and sat silently beside him. But he, as though having a presentiment of a new sorrow, asked her no question, said nothing. He merely took her hand and closed his eyes again.

Maria had spoken with frequent pauses, as though she expected her father to interrupt her. But she ended, and still there passed a long period of silence without his opening his lips. At last the young woman asked him, timidly,—

"Have you nothing to say to me, papa?"

"Nothing," he replied, without looking at her.

"But do you give me your consent to do as I said?"

"Yes."

"Oh, I knew you would!... You are so good ... and sufficiently religious.... You are not like other fathers who are blinded, and would rather their daughters were exposed to the dangers of the world than be forever servants of the Lord, in the safe precincts of a holy house.... Thanks, papa, thanks.... I was afraid ... it is true, I was afraid that you would not approve my resolution.... But God has touched your heart.... Now I will leave you.... Marta is waiting for me.... Adios, papa!.... Let me kiss you.... Adios!"

The room remained in darkness. The noises outside slowly died away. An immense, keen, cruel grief palpitated in that lonely room, and a pair of fixed, stupefied, tearless eyes reflected the few rays of light that still wandered lost in the atmosphere.

How long did he remain so?

IN the small but pretty church of the nuns of San Bernardo, in Nieva, there was great bustling. The sacristan, aided by three acolytes, the two serving women of the convent, and a female from the city, celebrated for her skill in dressing the saints, were stirring up a more than ordinary noise in brushing the ornaments of the altars with fox tails and feather dusters. They had no hesitation in standing upon them, and even climbing upon the saints themselves, whenever it was required by the need of dusting some carved work or placing a taper in the proper place. The Mother Abbess from the choir, with her forehead pressed against the grating, shouted her orders like a general-in-chief, in a sharp, piping voice.

"A candlestick there! Yonder a wreath of flowers! Lift up that lamp a little more! Place the crown on that Virgin straight...."

"Ay! it seems to me that this rosary has very coarse beads."—"No, sister, take yours and you will see that they are alike."—"I am going to see, just for my own satisfaction.... It's true; they are alike.... What a goose!"—"The flannel is too harsh."—"It is because it wasn't well washed."—"This hood is beautifully ironed!"—"Hesús mio! what stitches!... that is not sewing, it is basting!... Who made this tunic?"—"The Sister Isabel."—"Then it's splendid!"—"Don't say so, sister, perhaps you wouldn't have done it so well!"—"I? do it worse ... Come ... come ... never in my life did I make such a botch!"—"How many have you ever done, sister?"—"Never did I, never!" repeated the nun, in angry voice. "I could sew better when I was seven years old."

At this moment the Mother Superior appeared in the passage-way; the nun who had chided her companion stepped aside from the group, and said to her,—

"Mother, Sister Luísa has just boasted that she sews better than Sister Isabel, and she lost her temper because I told her that she ought not to do it."

"Is it true, daughter?" demanded the Mother Superior, in a severe tone.

Sister Luísa hung her head.

"Daughter, you know well that here no one ought to boast of doing anything better than any one else.... You ought to believe yourself the least of all, for perhaps you are.... For some time you have been very far from humble, and it is necessary for us to begin to correct this fault.... First thing, go and ask pardon of Sister Isabel for your fault, and then shut yourself in your cell and pray a rosary to the Virgin.... Afterwards when I am in the reception-room with the novice, you must present yourself there and kneel, so that the people may see that you are in disgrace."

Sister Luísa bent her head still lower and hurried away. A smile of triumph hovered over the lips of the nun.

"Ay! what an expense it takes, Dios mio!"

"Can it be her true vocation!... A girl so young and so lively!"

"There is nothing else talked about in town.... Everybody is excited over this fortunate event!"

"Fortunate for her, my dear! I don't know as I shall have strength enough to see the ceremony."

"But I am going to see it, though it should cost me a fit of sickness."

"MY DEAR RICARDO,—

Though it is now some time since the course of our love was interrupted, tacitly, and by virtue of providential circumstances, rather than by my desire, I feel it my duty to explain to thee something about the resolution which I have made, and which, of course, is known to thee, I cannot forget, and indeed I ought not to forget, that thou hast been my betrothed, with the approbation of my parents, and the sincere affection of my heart.

"Before renouncing the world forever, I must tell thee that I have absolutely no reason to complain of thy behavior to me. Thou hast ever been good, true, and affectionate, and hast estimated me higher than I deserve. It is indeed true, that if I were to remain in the world I would not give thee in exchange for any other man, and I should count myself very happy in calling thee my husband, if I did not count myself much more so in being the bride of Jesus Christ. The preference which I make cannot offend or trouble a man who is as good and pious as thou art. Henceforth no earthly love exists between us; there remains only a pure and most sweet friendship, uniting us in the Sacred Heart of Jesus. I shall not forget thee in my poor prayers. Forget me as far as possible. Thou art good, thou art noble, handsome, and rich. Seek for a woman who will deserve thee more than I deserve thee, and marry, and be happy. I shall pray without ceasing for you.

"Adios,
"Maria."

Could he have had a better gilded pill? No; no; Ricardo had no right to complain.

While the most of the ladies added innumerable glosses to this document, those who were robing the new bride-elect of Jesus were about finishing their task and giving the last touches to her dress, with the same complacency that an artist shows in laying the last shades on his picture, stepping back and coming near a thousand times to realize the effect produced. Here a pin; the throat a little more open to show the beautiful alabaster neck; a few ringlets on her brow carelessly escaping from among the orange flowers; a button that needed fastening. Maria aided her maids of honor with quick motions. All admired her serenity. And, in fact, the young bride could not have shown a face more joyous at such moments. Nevertheless there was a certain agitation noticeable in her joy. Her movements were too quick and eager, as though she were trying to hide the slight trembling of her hands and the tremor that ran over her whole body. Was it a tremor of delight?

Oh, yes, Maria felt an intense delight.

Always when she entered the church of the convent she felt the same rapture, a species of voluptuous somnolence penetrating her whole being like a caress. From that choir came languorous, sweet murmurs, calling her, inviting her to leave the pleasures of the world for others more sweet and mysterious, which she had already begun to enjoy without full knowledge of them. Jesus had granted her already rich enjoyments in her prayers, but He would not abandon himself completely,—certainly would not lose consciousness of self in the arms of the bride; would not give His all to her with the infinite, immortal love which she eagerly desired, except within that silent poetic retreat where no sound could disturb them.

At last the day had come for her to satisfy her desire; within an hour she would be within that mysterious choir which had caused her so many dreams, and would cross with floating tunic the warm sunlight falling through the lofty windows. She felt impatient for the moment to arrive. She was nervous, restless, but smiling. Never had she been so self-satisfied. Her friends were not weary of exalting her virtue and heroism; the town regarded her with surprise, and around her she heard only praise and words of admiration. Maria really found herself upon a pedestal. And like every one who is under the public gaze, our heroine succeeded in hiding the emotions of her soul, and showed a serene and joyous face. It was her day; it was the day of the great battle, and she smoothed her brow and composed the expression of her face, like a general when the hour of the attack has come.

"Mariíta! the secretary of the señor bishop sends me to tell you that his eminence is ready, and is at this moment starting for the church."

"Very well, I shall be right out."

"I have attended to the organ-loft. I notified Don Serapio and the organist.... Preciosa, Mariíta preciosa.... Do notice the blue hangings which I put on the picture of the Virgin...."

"Thanks, Ernesto, many thanks; I am deeply grateful to you."

At a sign from Maria all the ladies arose, and hastened behind her down the stairs, but for all that there was no cessation of their impertinent chatter. The young woman went straight to her father's room, and remained shut in it for some time. No one knew what passed within. Those who were waiting at the door heard the sound of sobs, confused sentences spoken in angry tones, the movement of chairs. The ladies, waiting in the anteroom, whispered to those who came in, "She is taking farewell, farewell of her father.... Don Mariano will not attend the ceremony."

Shortly afterward, Maria re-appeared, smiling and serene as before, saying, "Come, ladies, let us go!"

With the same serenity she passed through the great room of the mansion without giving a glance at the furniture, and descended the broad, stone stairway without showing the slightest trepidation, as she walked along in her dainty white satin shoes.

At the door stood waiting a magnificent barouche, drawn by four white horses. Pedro had shown his taste by decorating them with great blue plumes, and by donning a livery of the same color. On that day everything must be blue, the color of purity and virginity. Even the sky, for greater glory, had clad itself in blue, and shone clear and beautiful. Maria climbed into the carriage with the Señora de Ciudad, her godmother, and the others took leave of her for the nonce, and hastened to the church.

"Look at her! look at her! What a splendid creature,—a woman after my very heart!"

"I should like to devour her with kisses!"

"And what a rich dress she wears!"

"They say that it came expressly from Paris. She did not want to dress in tisú; the chasubles which it will make into will be given away separately, and the gown will remain for the Virgin of Amor Hermoso."

"Oh, I never saw such a lovely creature!... She looks like an angel."

The carriage followed its majestic course, and the young woman smiled sweetly on the multitude. From two or three houses a deluge of flowers was showered upon her, and their variegated petals for a moment enameled the white cloth of her dress; a few remained entangled in her hair. The people applauded.

"Woman, this girl's vocation teaches us a lesson."

"How fortunate she is!... Who would be in her place?"

"It can't be said that she was obliged to.... I know that her father was furious when he heard about it, and tried every way to dissuade her."

"Come now, she is wedded to Jesus Christ, and her family don't like it," declared a youth, who was listening to this conversation.

The women turned around ready to crush the scoffer, but he made off, laughing.

What was Ricardo doing during this time?

Maria did not ask this; she passed by without casting even a furtive look at the Gothic windows; on her lips still hovered the serene, condescending smile. The shadow nevertheless caused in her a slight tremor of chill.

At the church door all her girl friends, including Martita, were waiting for her. The temple was overflowing with people; they made way for her to pass. At the high altar the bishop of——, who had come purposely to give her the veil, stood ready to receive her. He knelt and prayed for a few instants. The confused murmur of the congregation ceased; an intense silence reigned.

The prelate began to speak in a clear and solemn voice:—

The venerable bishop spoke with extraordinary deliberation, making long pauses at the end of his sentences, which lent great dignity to his discourse. His voice was sweet and clear, and rang through the silent nave of the church like sweet music. He went on to trace with terrible accuracy the details of the religious life, spreading out before the young woman's eyes all the apparatus of mortification which it involved; the pleasures of the world entirely forgotten, the senses crucified, earthly affections, even the purest, crushed; and this, not for a day, not for a month, not for a year only, but for all days, all months, all years, until the hour of death, always eagerly seeking for pain as others seek for pleasure. But after he had painted the gloomy picture of the mortification, he went on to express eloquently the pure, lively pleasures to be found in it. "To trust one's self to the arms of God, as a child goes to its mother, that he may do with us as he pleases. To find God in the depths of bitterness and grief, to unite one's self to Him.... To possess Him ... and to be the beloved child in whom His infinite grandeur can take delight.... To live eternally united to Him.... To be His bride!... Is not that a sufficient recompense for the petty sorrows that we may experience in a life so brief?"

Over the heads of the faithful appeared a great silver waiter, the same which a few hours before was in one of the convent cells, and on it the habit of the novice of San Bernardo. The prelate blessed it.

Then were heard the sharp, nasal tones of the organ, and the procession took up the line of march: Maria in front, and at her side her godmother and Marta; next came the bishop and behind him the clergy. Some of the people followed and some stayed in the church. Near the door was the entrance to the convent, through which they passed, penetrating into a large, gloomy cloister, illuminated at intervals by a bright sunbeam coming through the swell of the arches. At the end of one of the galleries was an open door, and guarding it, silent, motionless, were seen the white figures of two nuns with wax tapers in their hands. The bride-elect again knelt, and instantly rising she convulsively pressed her sister to her heart. It was the last embrace. When she wished to extricate herself, Martita's arms were so tightly clasped about her neck that it required the intervention of several ladies to accomplish it. She also kissed all her girl friends, who wept bitterly, while she, giving an example of sublime serenity, joyous and smiling, entered the house of the Lord escorted by the two nuns.

All waited some time with impatient curiosity. No one paid any attention to the cracked voice of the proprietor of the canning factory; the eyes of the congregation were fixed, glued to the choir of the Bernardas, gazing through the bars at the little door in the rear.

At last she appeared. She came, escorted still by the two nuns. The garb of novice made her look a little older. Yet she was beautiful; very beautiful; for she really was beautiful, that saintly and extraordinary creature. The people devoured her with their eyes, and repeated in a whisper, "She comes smiling, she comes smiling."

Ah, yes, the new bride of Jesus Christ was smiling, in her expectation of the sweet reward for her sacrifice. But the venerable man who, at that same instant, was walking alone through one of the state departments of the Elorza mansion ... he did not smile! And the young man who, at the same time, was sitting with folded arms, and head sunken for his breast, face to face with a woman's portrait, was he perhaps smiling?... No, no! neither did he smile.

The prelate came to the grating, and said to the novice,—

"Thou shalt not call thyself Maria Magdalena, but, Maria Juana de Jesús."

Silence reigned for a few moments, but it was disturbed by a peculiarly melancholy tinkling. It was the curtain of the choir being drawn. Nothing more was seen. They began to put out the lights, and the people withdrew in all haste.

"Don't fail to pray for us!"

"Yes, I will pray for you, dear. We"—she added with a little emphasis—"we are obliged to pray for those who remain in the world."

"If you knew how all the servants wept a moment since."

"Poor people!... I love them all so much!"

"Here is Marta, who wants to say good by."

"Come nearer, Marta ... Are you becoming reconciled yet?"

"What remedy have I, Maria," replied the girl, struggling to repress her sobs.

"No, sister; you must resign yourself gladly, and be thankful to the Lord for the favors which he has heaped upon me.... You will always be good, will you not?... Console papa.... Don't forget those prayers which I gave you, nor fail to read the books of which I told you.... Come to hear mass every day.... Try to be always earnest and humble...."

Ah, no! Martita would not try, would not try. As she was born good and humble there is no need of striving for it. In this regard the bride of the Lord may be at rest.

The small room where the two nuns stood near the grating seemed like a prison cell by its ugliness and gloom. Their tunics stood out like two white spots against the black lattice.

"Sister Juana, I want to ask you a favor; please give me as a remembrance a few orange blossoms from the crown which you wear...."

"If the mother is willing...." murmured Maria, turning her face to the Mother Superior.

She bowed assent, and the gift of orange flowers was liberal and gracefully granted.

At that instant the Sister Luisa, the nun who was to be punished for her vanity, came in and fell upon her knees, but not the slightest trace of a blush passed over her face. The habit of performing such deeds deprived them of all worth.

The conversation wandered off upon festivals, novenas to come, the journey of the vicar who was called to be canon of the cathedral, his successor, and other subjects. Insensibly all were lowering the tone of their voices until there was only a monotonous and melancholy whispering. It seemed like a visit of condolence rather than of congratulation. They continued to extol Maria's courage and virtue. "Ay, Dios mio! to think that she is a prisoner forever and living a life of so much labor...."

But he let his head fall, and only murmured,—

"My daughter! my daughter!"

THE transfer of the young artillery lieutenant, Ricardo de Peñalta, had not yet arrived. He had applied for it a fortnight before the Señorita de Elorza took the veil. A month had already passed since the great ceremony ... and nothing! The influential personages whom our friend had in Madrid, devoted to his interests, this time took little pains to fulfil his desires.

But why was our hero so anxious to leave Nieva? Be it said in honor of the truth, that when Ricardo asked for the transfer he was exceedingly desirous of turning his back forever upon those places where he had been so happy, and where he was going to be so wretched; but now, after the lapse of a month, the violence of his sorrow had somewhat subsided, and he was beginning to get accustomed to his misfortune. Still he continued to be greatly downcast; the whole town noticed it.

And gradually under the influence of these doubts, which went almost as far as to be certainties, there sprang up in his mind a strong aversion to the amorous memories, which were a drawback to him. When he thought of the Maria of former times, so joyous, so lovely, so buoyant, his heart would melt within him, and the tears would flow; when his thought went back to the day on which, hidden behind the curtains, he saw her pass by his house unmoved and smiling, without so much as casting a glance at his windows, his heart was filled with a bitterness not free from rancor. And when he saw her in his imagination in the garb of a San Bernardin nun, entirely oblivious of the sweet scenes which had been the enchantment of his life, despising them, perhaps, and looking upon them with horror, as though they had been crimes, our young friend—may God forgive him the sin—began to look with hatred upon the bride of Jesus Christ. These doubts which constantly assaulted him were a genuine cautery for his passion, painful and cruel, like all cauteries, but very salutary in their effects.

Every day when he reached the Elorza's, Martita asked him, "Has it come yet, Ricardo?"

"Perhaps you are anxious for me to go away, Martita?"

"Oh, no," would be the young girl's reply, with an inflection of voice equal to a poem.

But Ricardo did not have the power of reading it. These love-wrecked men, these men wounded by disenchantment, cannot read other poems than their own.

Marta, after the death of her mother, in whose illness Ricardo had so much aided and consoled her, once more treated him with the same confidence and affection as of old. For some time she had been rather cool toward him. Don Mariano's younger daughter had passed through a terrible crisis, and no one in the house had a suspicion of it. While it lasted she was rather more brusque in her behavior, more restless, more serious and reserved; but at last her calm spirit and her healthy and well-balanced nature came out victorious. Doña Gertrudis's death, which was a more serious and genuine calamity than anything else, had no small effect in calming the disturbances and commotions of her heart. She was once more the same Marta, tranquil, serene, and affectionate as before, always anxious to free obstacles from the path of others, though her own were blocked by an unsurmountable wall. Fortunate are they who in life meet with these blessed beings who found their own happiness in that of others, and who offer the flowers and content themselves with the thorns.

One morning, Ricardo, as though it was the most natural thing in the world, as though the tidings did not tear any one's heart, as though it were some mere trifle of little consequence at issue, came into the Elorzas', and said,—

"Yesterday evening at last my transfer to Valencia came!"

Blind! blind! dost thou not see that girl's pallor? Dost thou not notice the painful trembling that runs over her body? Look out! she is going to fall! Run, run to her assistance!

Nothing, the young marquis perceived nothing! He, too, was a little pale. The indifferent tone in which he made the announcement was pure comedy, for I know on good authority that he walked up and down his room the night before, till he was tired out, and that the rays of the morning found him still unable to close his eyes.

Don Mariano made a gesture of disappointment, exclaiming,—

"There, my son, there!... I feel that we are going to lose you!... However, if it is your pleasure...."

"And when do you expect to go?" pursued the caballero.

"To-morrow. I must stop in Madrid a few days to attend to some business. I shall reach Valencia the tenth of next month."

"Are you going to some regiment?"

"To the First Cavalry."

"Ah!"