To say that Ruth was glad to have Estrella find her people was to put the case too lightly altogether; she was far too unselfish not to rejoice in her good fortune even though her going might mean great human loneliness for her: she had in her own inner consciousness a kind of spiritual and lasting strength on which she always leaned when outside companionship failed her in any way ... she never was alone although she often seemed to be so ... in fact, Ruth Wakefield often found herself to be alone among a crowd of human beings ... it seemed to her their many diverse thoughts disturbed the peace of mind she always longed to have ... her pity was so great ... her sympathy so broad ... and sorrows and sore trials are so common to the entire race of men and women ... that she seldom found much joy among the people whom she met; she gave most liberally to all she came in contact with ... she gave encouragement and comfort and sympathy and help ... but seldom did she find a human being who could give her anything at all for any length of time, at least: "They come and they go," she often sadly said. "It seems to me that there is nothing steadfast in this world except the God on whom I always lean when all else fails me.... I wish I _could_ find something strong enough to tie my faith to ... I _wish_ I could ... it would be wonderful to know that I could always find good, solid ground beneath my human feet ... it would be wonderful to feel that nothing mattered between another human being and myself ... to feel that nothing, good or bad, could ever really change our feelings toward each other ... but I'd have to know for sure that it was so ..." she'd add, "I'd have to know for sure, I'd have to try it out somehow ... so many things have slipped away from me ... so very many things ... I'd have to know for sure, somehow, before I'd dare to trust too much." While these personal matters were taking the attention of some of those within the shadowy hospital, Father Felix was undergoing an altogether different experience. The good Priest had, more than once, covered the entire eight miles of entrenchments around Santiago on foot and with a heavy pack containing supplies on his broad back; during the time that elapsed between the naval battle of Santiago and the surrender of the city on Sunday, July 17, 1898, he had marched with his little flock of soldiers over many stony trails and through many miry passes, and, while the engagement itself was in progress, he had performed many heroic deeds and, more than once, he had fervently thanked God for his sturdy strength of arm and limb because he was thereby enabled to give material as well as spiritual aid to those who came within the reach of his hands; had anyone been watching a certain shady spot near Santiago on July 3, 1898, he might have witnessed a peculiar scene.