"At first I thought my dream was a snare. I say again that I am not a theologian. Still, I tried to puzzle out if such dreams were against sound doctrine. At first I feared they were. But I came to see that the words of our Lord, 'In the resurrection they neither marry nor are married,' referred to marrying of an earthly kind. Many another scripture came to my mind; and many another thought came to comfort me. Our Mother, the Blessed Virgin crowned in heaven--is she not a woman still? And do we not think of this saint or of that as still a man or still a woman, as the case may be? Is the life hereafter to be a blank Nirvana? Will it be less richly personal than the life we are living now? But these are only my own poor thoughts, worth less than nothing. I rest rather in two great scriptures. _In domo Patris mei mansiones multœ sunt_: 'In my Father's house are many mansions.' And again, 'Eye hath not seen, nor hath the ear heard, nor hath it entered into the heart of man what things God hath prepared for those who love Him.' But let me be plain to the end. My dreams are beyond my control; and, when I am awake, I do not willingly dwell on these thoughts." The big bell of the monastery, vocal once more after seven-and-twenty years of silence, struck twelve. The monk and the nun listened to the strokes without speaking. Before the last echoes died away Brother Cypriano rang the Angelus. "_Angelus Domini nuntiavit Mariœ_," said Antonio, with bowed head. And Isabel responded: "_Et concepit de Spiritu sancto_." When the pious exercise was finished she said: "It is time to go." "No," cried Antonio, suddenly perceiving that she had picked up her cloak and mantilla. "You must not go." "I must go," she said, smiling gently. "Antonio, things are changed indeed. In the old days your great aim was to drive me away." "You must not go," he said, with the utmost energy. "The Duchess of Ribeira Grande is at the guest-house, with servants. There is room for you and for your friend the Dominican sister. You need rest, until to-morrow. You must not go." She shook her head, still smiling gently, and held out her hand. "Good-bye, Antonio," she said. He took the hand; but instead of grasping it and letting it fall he held it, and said once more: "Until to-morrow you must not go." She began to disengage her fingers. Antonio gripped them fiercely and pleaded not only with his voice, but with his eyes. "Isabel," he said, "one room at the guest-house is still yours. It can be made ready for you and for your friend to-night. It is your old room, with the white roses. I have suffered no one to enter it for twenty years." This time she left her hand in his. The monk's voice, his brown velvet eyes, his clasp, and the rush of old memories were too much for her. She trembled a little; and suddenly a rain of tears fell upon Antonio's hand.