"I know only your pueblo, Manila and Antipolo," replied the young girl, radiant; "but I have always thought of you, and though my confessor commanded it, I was never able to forget you. I used to think over all our childish plays and quarrels. Do you remember the day you were really angry? Your mother had taken us to wade in the brook, behind the reeds. You put a crown of orange flowers on my head and called me Chloe. But your mother took the flowers and ground them with a stone, to mix with gogo, for washing our hair. You cried. 'Stupid,' said she, 'you shall see how good your hair smells!' I laughed; at that you were angry and wouldn't speak to me, while I wanted to cry. On the way home, when the sun was very hot, I picked some sage leaves for your head. You smiled your thanks, and we were friends again." Ibarra opened his pocketbook and took out a paper in which were some leaves, blackened and dry, but fragrant still. "Your sage leaves," he replied to her questioning look. In her turn, she drew out a little white satin purse. "Hands off!" as he reached out for it, "there's a letter in it!" "My letter of good-by?" "Have you written me any others, senor mio?" "What is in it?" "Lots of fibs, excuses of a bad debtor," she laughed. "If you're good I will read it to you, suppressing the gallantries, though, so you won't suffer too much." And lifting the paper to hide her face, she began: "'My----' I'll not read what follows, because it's a fib"; and she ran her eyes over several lines. "In spite of my prayers, I must go. 'You are no longer a boy,' my father said, 'you must think of the future. You have to learn things your own country cannot teach you, if you would be useful to her some day. What, almost a man and I see you in tears?' Upon that I confessed my love for you. He was silent, then placing his hand on my shoulder he said in a voice full of emotion: 'Do you think you alone know how to love; that it costs your father nothing to let you go away from him? It is not long since we lost your mother, and I am growing old, yet I accept my solitude and run the risk of never seeing you again. For you the future opens, for me it shuts; the fire of youth is yours, frost touches me, and it is you who weep, you who do not know how to sacrifice the present to a to-morrow good for you and for your country." Ibarra's agitation stopped the reading; he had become very pale and was walking back and forth. "What is it? You are ill!" cried Maria, going toward him. "With you I have forgotten my duty; I should be on my way to the pueblo. To-morrow is the Feast of the Dead." Maria was silent. She fixed on him her great, thoughtful eyes, then turned to pick some flowers. "Go," she said, and her voice was deep and sweet; "I keep you no longer. In a few days we shall see each other again. Put these flowers on your father's grave."