"Yes," I replied, and looked her full in the face. Manuela it was. I well remembered the sweet countenance, first seen in Careta. I raised myself, and would fain have seized hold of her, but she moved slowly away, her rosary and golden crucifix and black gown rustling through the room. It was no deception. Again Manuela came, and brought me some cooling drink. Once more I looked her hard in the eyes. God! now I remembered! It was the same beautiful woman who distributed the wine at Hostiz and would fain have given me some. "Faugh!" I exclaimed, and raised myself in bed to call the Piedmontese to shoot her. But she bent soothingly over me, and laid hold of the ribbon upon which I wore Manuela's silver cross. I thought she was about to strangle me; but she smiled kindly, and showed me that she wore a similar cross upon her breast. And she gave me to drink, and then took away the little earthen jug, and disappeared at the dark end of the room. And I lay thinking how like she was to Manuela, the poor girl in Careta, who loved me and saved my life. The same night--how long afterwards I cannot tell, perhaps five minutes, perhaps two hours--the pale sad face again bowed over me. Just then two hospital attendants bore away a corpse, rolled in its bed-clothes. My neighbour, No. 50, cried out, "Pierre! they are burying you!" and laughed horridly, whilst the German opposite sang gently and mournfully: "Sei still! ich steh' in Gottes Hut, Der schützt ein treu Soldatenblut." But close beside me a soft voice whispered: "Sleep, and be at rest; God give thee peace and health. I am not Manuela--I am Maria. I found thy cross, and I pray for thee. Thou shalt recover and return to thy country!" And her prayers and care prevailed. I did recover, and returned to friends and home. But often still do I think of poor Manuela, and of my loves and perils and sufferings in yon strange land beyond the Pyrenees. HEIGH-HO! A pretty young maiden sat on the grass, Sing heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho! And by a blythe young shepherd did pass, In the summer morning so early. Said he, "My lass will you go with me, My cot to keep, and my bride to be, Sorrow and want shall never touch thee, And I will love you rarely?" "Oh! no, no, no!" the maiden said, Sing heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho! And bashfully turn'd aside her head, On that summer morning so early: "My mother is old, my mother is frail, Our cottage it lies in yon green dale; I dare not list to any such tale, For I love my kind mother rarely." The shepherd took her lily-white hand, Sing heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho! And on her beauty did gazing stand, On that summer morning so early. "Thy mother I ask thee not to leave, Alone in her frail old age to grieve, But my home can hold us all, believe-- Will that not please thee fairly?"